AT   LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT  OF 

C.     G.     De  Garxno 


TOfltfcomB  QRifeg 


NEGHBORLY  POEMS 
SKETCHES  IN  PROSE   AND 

INTERLUDING  VERSES 
AFTERWHILES 
PIPES  O'  PAN  (Prose  and  Verse) 
RHYMES  OF  CHILDHOOD 
FLYING  ISLANDS  OF  THE 

NIGHT 
GREEN  FIELDS  AND  RUN 

NING  BROOKS 
ARMAZINDY 
A  CHILD-WORLD 
HOME-FOLKS 
OLD-FASHIONED  ROSES 

(English  Edition) 
THE  GOLDEN  YEAR 

(English  Edition) 

POEMS  HERE  AT  HOME 
BUBAIYAT  OF  DOC  SIFERS 

CHILD-RHYMES    WITH 
HOOSIER  PICTURES 

RILEY  LOVE-LYRICS 
(Pictures  by  Dyer) 


SKETCHES  IN  PROSE 


AND 


OCCASIONAL  VERSES 


JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


INDIANAPOLIS 

THE  BOWEN-MERRILL  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1891,  1897,  1900,  1901, 
BY  JAMES  WHITCOMB  RILEY 


•ps 


36 
190 


TO  UNCLE  MART 


4CG631 


CONTENTS 

SKETCHES  IN  PROSE 

PAGB 

God  Bless  Us  Every  One 6 

AN  ADJUSTABLE  LUNATIC 51 

BAN,  THE 199 

BELLS  JANGLED 47 

ECCENTRIC  MR.  CLARK 203 

FAME 99 

JAMES? 5 

NEST-EGG,  A 131 

OLD  MAN,  THE 249 

REMARKABLE  MAN,  A 105 

TALE  OF  A  SPIDER 147 

"  THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY  " 229 

TOD 75 

WHERE  Is  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 181 


JAMESY 


GOD  BLESS  US  E  VERT  ONE 

'•'•God  bless  us  every  one!"  prayed  Tiny  Tim, 
Crippled,  and  dwarfed  of  body,  yet  so  tall 
Of  soul,  -we  tiptoe  earth  to  look  on  him, 
High  towering  over  all. 

He  loved  the  loveless  world,  nor  dreamed  indeed 
That  it,  at  best,  could  give  to  him,  the  while, 
But  pitying  glances,  when  his  only  need 
Was  but  a  cheery  smile. 

And  thus  he  prayed,  '•'•God  bless  us  everyone!" — 

Enfolding  all  the  creeds  within  the  span 
Of  his  child-heart;  and  so,  despising  none, 
Was  nearer  saint  than  man. 

I  like  to  fancy  God,  in  Paradise, 

Lifting  a  Jinger  o'er  the  rhythmic  swing 
Of  chiming  harp  and  song,  with  eager  eyes 
Turned  earthward,  listening — 

The  Anthem  stilled — the  Angels  leaning  there 

Above  the  golden  walls — the  morning  sun 
Of  Christmas  bursting flower-like  with  the  prayer, 
"God  bless  us  every  one  I" 


JAMESY 

ONE  week  ago  this  Christmas  day,  in  the  little 
back  office  that  adjoins  the  counting-room  of  the 
"Daily  Journal,"  I  sat  in  genial  conversation  with 
two  friends.  I  do  not  now  recall  the  theme  of  our 
discussion,  but  the  general  trend  of  it — suggested, 
doubtless,  by  the  busy  .scene  upon  the  streets — I 
remember  most  distinctly  savored  of  the  mellow 
ing  influences  of  the  coming  holidays,  with  per 
haps  an  acrid  tang  of  irony  as  we. dwelt  upon  the 
great  needs  of  the  poor  at  such  a  time,  and  the 
chariness  with  which  the  hand  of  opulence  was 
wont  to  dole  out  alms.  But  for  all  that  we  were 
merry,  and  as  from  time  to  time  our  glances  fell 
upon  the  ever-shifting  scene  outside,  our  hearts 
grew  warmer,  and  within  the  eyes  the  old  dreams 
glimmered  into  fuller  dawn.  It  was  during  a  lull 
of  conversation,  and  while  the  philanthropic  mind, 
perchance,  was  wandering  amid  the  outer  throng, 
and  doubtless  quoting  to  itself  "Whene'er  I  take 
my  walks  abroad,"  that  our  privacy  was  abruptly 
broken  into  by  the  grimy  apparition  of  a  boy  of 
ten;  a  ragged  little  fellow — not  the  stereotyped 

7 


JAMESY 

edition  of  the  street  waif,  but  a  cross  between  the 
boot-black  and  the  infantine  Italian  with  the  violin. 
Where  he  had  entered,  and  how,  would  have  puz 
zled  us  to  answer;  but  there  he  stood  before  us, 
as  it  were,  in  a  majesty  of  insignificance.  I  have 
never  had  the  features  of  a  boy  impress  me  as  did 
his,  and  as  I  stole  a  covert  glance  at  my  compan 
ions  I  was  pleased  to  find  the  evidence  of  more 
than  ordinary  interest  in  their  faces.  They  gazed 
in  attentive  silence  on  the  little  fellow,  as,  with 
uncovered,  frowzy  head,  he  stepped  boldly  for 
ward,  yet  with  an  air  of  deference  as  unlocked  for 
as  becoming. 

"I  don't  want  to  bother  you  gentlemens,"  he 
began,  in  a  frank  but  hesitating  tone  that  rippled 
hurriedly  along  as  he  marked  a  general  nod  of  in 
dulgence  for  the  interruption.  "I  don't  want  to 
bother  nobody,  but  if  I  can  raise  fifty  cents — and 
I've  got  a  nickel — and  if  I  can  raise  the  rest — and 
it  ain't  much,  you  know — on'y  forty-five — and  if  I 
can  raise  the  rest — I  tell  you,  gentlemens,"  he 
broke  off  abruptly,  and  speaking  with  italicized 
sincerity — "I  want  jist  fifty  cents,  'cause  I  can  git  a 
blackin'-box  fer  that,  and  brush  and  ever' thing, 
and  you  can  bet  if  I  had  that  I  wouldn't  haf  to 
ast  nobody  fer  nothin' !  And  I  ain't  got  no  father 
ner  mother,  ner  brother  ner — ner — no  sisters, 
neether;  but  that  don't  make  no  difference,  'cause 
8 


JAMESY 

I'll  work — at  anything — yes,  sir — when  I  can  git 
anything  to  do — and  I  sleep  jist  any  place — and  I 
ain't  had  no  breakfast — and,  honest,  gentlemens, 
I'm  a  good  boy — I  don't  swear  ner  smoke  ner 

chew — but  that's  all  right — on'y  if  you'll jist 

make  up  forty-five  between  you — and  that's  on'y 
fifteen  cents  apiece — I'll  thank  you,  I  will,  and  I'll 
jist  do  anything — and  it's  coming  Christmas,  and 
I'll  roll  in  the  nickels,  don't  you  fergit — if  I  on'y 
got  a  box — 'cause  I  throw  up  a  'bad'  shine ! — and  I 
can  git  the  box  fer  fifty  cents  if  you  gentlemens'll 
on'y  make  up  forty-five  between  you."  At  the 
conclusion  of  this  long  and  rambling  appeal,  the 
little  fellow  stood  waiting  with  an  eager  face  for 
a  response. 

A  look  of  stoical  deliberation  played  about  the 
features  of  the  oldest  member  of  the  group,  as 
with  an  air  of  seriousness,  which,  I  think,  even 
the  boy  recognized  as  affected,  he  asked: 

"And  you  couldn't  get  a  box  like  that  for — say 
forty  cents  ?  Fifty  cents  looks  like  a  lot  of  money 
to  lay  out  in  the  purchase  of  a  blacking-box." 

The  boy  smiled  wisely  as  he  answered : 

"Yes,  it  might  look  big  to  a  feller  that  ain't  up 
on  prices,  but  /think  it's  cheap,  'cause  it's  a  second 
hand  box,  and  a  new  one  would  cost  seventy-five 
cents  anyhow — 'thout  no  brushes  ner  nothin'l" 

In  the  meantime  I  had  dropped  into  the  little 


JAMESY 

fellow's  palm  the  only  coin  I  had  in  my  posses 
sion,  and  we  all  laughed  as  he  closed  his  thanks 
with:  "Oh,  come,  Cap,  go  the  other  nickel,  er  I 
won't  git  out  o'  here  with  half  enough!"  and  at 
that  he  turned  to  the  former  speaker. 

"Well,  really,"  said  that  gentleman,  fumbling 
in  his  pockets,  "I  don't  believe  I've  got  a  dime 
with  me." 

"A  dime"  said  the  little  fellow,  with  a  look  of 
feigned  compassion.  "Ain't  got  a  dime?  Maybe 
I'd  loan  you  this  one!"  And  we  all  laughed 
again. 

"Tell  you  what  do  now,"  said  the  boy,  taking 
advantage  of  the  moment,  and  looking  coaxingly 
into  the  smiling  eyes  of  the  gentleman  still  fum 
bling  vainly  in  his  pockets. — "Tell  you  what  do: 
you  borry  twenty  cents  of  the  man  that  stays 
behind  the  counter  there,  and  then  we'll  go  the 
other  fifteen,  and  that'll  make  it,  and  I'll  skip  out 
o'  here  a  little  the  flyest  boy  you  ever  see!  What 
do  ye  soy?"  And  the  little  fellow  struck  a  Pat 
Rooney  attitude  that  would  have  driven  the  origi 
nal  inventor  mad  with  envy. 

"Give  him  a  quarter!"  laughed  the  gentleman 
appealed  to. 

"And  here's  the  other  dime,"  and  as  the  little 
fellow  clutched  the  money  eagerly,  he  turned ;  and 
in  a  tone  of  curious  gravity,  he  said : 
10 


JAMESY 

"Now,  honest,  gentlemens,  I  ain't  a-givin'  you 
no  game  about  the  box — 'cause  a  new  one  costs 
seventy-five  cents,  and  the  one-I've  got — I  mean  the 
one  I'm  a-goin'  to  git — is  jist  as  good  as  a  new 
one,  on'y  it' s  second-hand ;  and  I'm  much  oblige', 
gentlemens — honest,  I  am — and  if  ever  I  give  you 
a  shine  you  can  jist  bet  it  don't  cost  you  nothin' !" 

And  with  this  expression  of  his  gratitude,  the 
little  fellow  vanished  as  mysteriously  as  he  had  at 
first  appeared. 

"That  boy  hasn't  a  bad  face,"  said  the  first 
speaker — "wide  between  the  eyes — full  forehead 
— good  mouth,  denoting  firmness — altogether,  a 
good,  square  face." 

"And  a  noble  one,"  said  I,  perhaps  inspired  to 
that  rather  lofty  assertion  by  the  rehearsal  of  the 
good  points  noted  by  my  more  observant  compan 
ion. 

"Yes,  and  an  honest,  straightforward  way  of 
talking,  I  would  say,"  continued  that  gentleman. 
"I  only  noted  one  thing  to  shake  my  faith  in  that 
particular,  and  that  was  in  his  latest  reference  to 
the  box.  You'll  remember  his  saying  he  was 
'giving  us  no  game'  about  it,  whereas,  he  had  not 
been  accused  of  such  a  thing." 

"Oh,  he  meant  about  the  price,  don't  you  re 
member?"  said  I. 

"No,"  said  the  gentleman  at  the  counter, 
ii 


JAMESY 

"you're  both  wrong.  He  only  threw  in  that  re 
mark  because  he  thought  I  suspected  him,  for  he 
recognized  me  just  the  instant  before  that  speech, 
and  it  confused  him,  and  with  some  reason,  as 
you  will  see: — On  my  way  to  supper  only  last 
night,  I  overtook  that  same  little  fellow  in  charge 
of  an  old  man  who  was  in  a  deplorable  state  of 
drunkenness;  and  you  know  how  slippery  the 
streets  were.  I  think  if  that  old  man  fell  a  single 
time  he  fell  a  dozen,  and  once  so  violently  that  I 
ran  to  his  assistance  and  helped  him  to  his  feet.  I 
thought  him  badly  hurt  at  first,  for  he  gashed  his 
forehead  as  he  fell,  and  I  helped  the  little  fellow 
to  take  him  into  a  drug-store,  where  the  wound, 
upon  examination,  proved  to  be  nothing  more  seri 
ous  than  to  require  a  strip  of  plaster.  I  got  a 
good  look  at  the  boy,  there,  however,  and  ques 
tioned  him  a  little ;  and  he  said  the  man  was  his 
father,  and  he  was  taking  him  home ;  and  I  gath 
ered  further  from  his  talk  that  the  man  was  a  con 
firmed  inebriate.  Now  you'll  remember  the  boy 
told  us  here  a  while  ago  he  had  no  father,  and 
when  he  recognized  me  a  moment  since  and  found 
himself  caught  in  one  'yarn,'  at  least,  he  very  natur 
ally  supposed  I  would  think  his  entire  story  a  fab 
rication,  hence  the  suspicious  nature  of  his  last  re 
marks,  and  the  sudden  transition  of  his  manner 
from  that  of  real  delight  to  gravity,  which  change, 

12 


JAMESY 

in  my  opinion,  rather  denotes  lying  to  be  a  new 
thing  to  him.  I  can't  be  mistaken  in  the  boy,  for 
I  noticed,  as  he  turned  to  go,  a  bald  place  on  the 
back  of  his  head,  the  left  side,  a  'trade-mark,' 
first  discovered  last  evening,  as  he  bent  over  the 
prostrate  form  of  his  father." 

"I  noticed  a  thin  spot  in  his  hair,"  said  I,  "and 
wondered  at  the  time  what  caused  it." 

"And  don't  you  know?" 

I  shook  my  head. 

"Coal-bins  and  entry  floors.  That  little  fellow 
hasn't  slept  within  a  bed  for  years,  perhaps." 

"But  he  told  you,  as  you  say,  last  night,  he  was 
taking  the  old  man  home?" 

"Yes,  home!  I  can  imagine  that  boy's  home. 
There  are  myriads  like  it  in  the  city  here — a  cellar 
or  a  shed — a  box-car  or  a  loft  in  some  old  shop, 
with  a  father  to  chase  him  from  it  in  his  sober  in 
terludes,  and  to  hold  him  from  it  in  unconscious 
shame  when  helplessly  drunk.  'Home,  Sweet 
Home ! '  That  boy  has  heard  it  on  the  hand-or 
gan,  perhaps,  but  never  in  his  heart — you  couldn't 
grind  it  out  of  there  with  a  thousand  cranks." 

The  remainder  of  that  day  eluded  me  somehow ; 
I  don't  know  how  or  where  it  passed.  I  suppose 
it  just  dropped  into  a  comatose  condition,  and  so 
slipped  away  "unknelled,  uncoffined  and  un 
known." 

'3 


JAMESY 

But  one  clear  memory  survives — an  experience 
so  vividly  imprinted  on  my  mind  that  I  now  recall 
its  every  detail :  Entering  the  Union  Depot  that 
evening  to  meet  the  train  that  was  to  carry  me 
away  at  six  o'clock,  muffled  closely  in  my  over 
coat,  yet  more  closely  muffled  in  my  gloomy 
thoughts,  I  was  rather  abruptly  stopped  by  a  small 
boy  with  the  cry  of:  "Here,  you  man  with  the 
cigar;  don't  you  want  them  boots  blacked  ?  Shine 
'em  fer  ten  cents!  Shine  'em  fer  a  nickel — on'y 
you  mustn't  give  me  away  on  that,"  he  added, 
dropping  on  his  knees  near  the  entrance,  and  mo 
tioning  me  to  set  my  foot  upon  the  box. 

It  was  then  too  dark  for  me  to  see  his  face 
clearly,  but  I  had  recognized  the  voice  the  instant 
he  had  spoken,  and  had  paused  and  looked  around. 

"Oh,  you'll  have  plenty  o'  time,"  he  urged, 
guessing  at  the  cause  of  my  apparent  hesitation. 
"None  o'  the  trains  on  time  to-night — on'y  the 
Panhandle,  and  she's  jist  a-backin'  in — won't 
start  fer  thirty  minutes,"  and  he  again  beckoned, 
and  rattled  a  seductive  tattoo  on  the  side  of  his 
box. 

"Well,"  said  I,  with  a  compromising  air,  "come 
inside,  then,  out  of  the  cold." 

"  'Ginst  the  rules — cops  won't  have  it.  They 
jist  fired  me  out  o'  there  not  ten  minutes  ago. 
Oh,  come,  Cap;  step  out  here;  it  won't  take  two 


JAMESY 

minutes,"  and  the  little  fellow  spat  professionally 
upon  his  brush,  with  a  covert  glance  of  pleasure 
as  he  noted  the  apparent  success  of  the  manoeuvre. 
"You  don't  live  here,  I'll  bet,"  said  the  boy,  set 
ting  the  first  boot  on  the  box,  and  pausing  to  blow 
his  hands. 

"How  do  you  know  that?  Did  you  never  see 
me  here  before  ?' ' 

"No,  I  never  see  you  here  before,  but  that  ain't 
no  reason.  I  can  tell  you  don't  live  here  by  them 
shoes — 'cause  they've  been  put  up  in  some  little 
pennyroyal  shop, — that's  how.  When  you  want  a 
'fly'  shoe  you  want  to  git  her  put  up  somers  where 
they  know  somepin'  about  style.  They's  good 
enough  metal  in  that  shoe,  on'y  she's  about  two 
years  off  in  style." 

"You're  posted,  then,  in  shoes,"  said  I,  with  a 
laugh. 

"I  ort  to  be,"  he  went  on,  pantingly,  a  brush 
in  either  hand  gyrating  with  a  velocity  that  jostled 
his  hat  over  his  eyes,  leaving  most  plainly  exposed 
to  my  investigative  eye  the  "trade-mark"  before 
^alluded  to;  "I  ort  to  be  posted  in  shoes,  'cause  I 
ain't  done  nothin'  but  black  'em  fer  five  years." 

"You're  an  old  hand,  then,  at  the  business," 
said  I.  "I  didn't  know  but  maybe  you  were  just 
starting  out.  What's  an  outfit  like  that  worth?" 

"Thinkin'  o'  startin'  up?"  he  asked,  facetiously. 

'5 


JAMESY 

"Oh,  no,"  said  I,  good-humoredly.  "I  just 
asked  out  of  idle  curiosity.  That's  a  new  box, 
ain't  it?" 

11  New!"  he  repeated  with  a  laugh.  "Put  up 
that  other  hoof.  New?  W'y,  if  that  box  had  ever 
had  eyes  like  a  human  it  would  a-been  a-wearin' 
specs  by  this  time;  that's  a  old,  bald-headed  box, 
with  one  foot  in  the  grave." 

"And  what  did  the  old  fellow  cost  you?"  I 
asked,  highly  amused  at  the  quaint  expressions  of 
the  boy. 

"Cost?  Cost  nothin' — on'y  about  a'  hour's 
work.  I  made  that  box  myse'f,  'bout  four  year 
ago." 

"Ah!"  said  I. 

"Yes,"  he  went  on,  "they  don't  cost  nothin'; 
the  boys  makes  'em  out  o'  other  boxes,  you  know. 
Some  of  'em  gits  'em  made,  but  they  ain't  no  good 
— ain't  no  better'n  this  kind." 

"So  that  didn't  cost  you  anything?"  said  I, 
"though  I  suspect  you  wouldn't  like  to  part  with 
it  for  less  than — well,  I  don't  know  how  much 
money  to  say — seventy-five  cents  maybe — would 
anything  less  than  seventy-five  cents  buy  it?"  I 
craftily  interrogated. 

"Seventy-five  cents!  W'y,  what's  the  matter 
with  you,  man?  I  could  git  a  cart-load  of  'em 
fer  seventy-five  cents.  I'll  take  yer  measure  fer 
16 


JAMESY 

one  like  it  fer  fifteen,  too  quick!"  and  the  little 
fellow  leaned  back  from  his  work  and  laughed  up 
in  my  face  with  absolute  derision. 

I  pulled  my  hat  more  closely  down  for  fear  of 
recognition,  but  was  reassured  a  moment  later  as 
he  went  on : 

"Wisht  you  lived  here;  you'd  be  old  fruit  fer 
us  fellows.  I  can  see  you  now  a-takin'  wind — 
and  we'd  give  it  to  you  mighty  slick  now,  don't  you 
fergit!"  and,  as  the  boy  renewed  his  work,  I  think 
his  little,  ragged  body  shook  less  with  industry  than 
mirth. 

"Wisht  I'd  struck  you  'bout  ten  o'clock  this 
morning!"  and,  as  he  spoke,  he  paused  again  and 
looked  up  in  my  face  with  real  regret.  "Oh, 
you'd  a-been  the  loveliest  sucker  of  'em  all!  W'y, 
you'd  a-went  the  whole  pot  yerse'f !" 

"How  do  you  mean?"  said  I,  dropping  the 
cigar  I  held. 

"How  do  I  mean?  Oh,  you  don't  want  to 
smoke  this  thing  again  after  it's  a-rollin'  round 
here  in  the  dirt!" 

"Why,  you  don't  smoke,"  said  I,  still  reaching 
for  the  cigar  he  held  behind  him. 

"Me?     Oh,  what  you  givin'  me?" 

"Come,  let  me  have  it,"  I  said  sharply,  draw 
ing  a  case  from  my  pocket  and  taking  out  another 
cigar. 

'7 


JAMESY 

"Oh,  you  want  a  light  "  he  said,  handing  me 
the  stub  and  watching  me  wistfully.  "Couldn't 
give  us  a  fresh  cigar,  could  you,  Cap?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  I,  as  though  deliberating 
on  the  matter.  "What  was  that  you  were  going 
to  tell  me  just  now  ?  You  started  to  tell  me  what 
a  'lovely  sucker'  I'd  have  been  had  you  met  me 
this  morning.  How  did  you  mean  ?' ' 

"Give  me  a  cigar  and  I'll  tell  you.  Oh,  come, 
now,  Cap;  give  me  a  smoker  and  I'll  give  you 
the  whole  game.  I  will,  now,  honest!" 

I  held  out  the  open  case. 

"Nothin'  mean  about  you,  is  they?"  he  said, 
eagerly  taking  a  fresh  cigar  in  one  hand  and  the 
stub  in  the  other.  "A  ten-center,  too — oh,  I  guess 
not!"  but,  to  my  surprise,  he  took  the  stub  be 
tween  his  lips,  and  began  opening  his  coat.  "Guess 
I'll  jist  fat  this  daisy,  and  save  'er  up  for  Christ 
mas.  No,  I  won't,  eether,"  he  broke  in  suddenly, 
with  a  bright,  keen  flash  of  second  thought.  "Tell 
you  what  I'll  do,"  holding  up  the  cigar  and  gaz 
ing  at  it  admiringly;  "she's  a  ten-center,  ain't 
she?" 

I  nodded. 

"And  worth  every  cent  of  it,  too,  ain't  she?" 

"Every  cent  of  it,"  I  repeated. 

"Then  give  me  a  nickel,  and  she's  yourn — 'cause 
if  you  can  afford  to  give  this  to  me  fer  nothin', 
18 


JAMESY 

looks  like  I  ort  to  let  you  have  it  fer  half-price;" 
and  as  I  laughingly  dropped  the  nickel  in  his  hand 
he  concluded,  "And  they's  nothin'  mean  about 
me,  neether!" 

"Now,  go  on  with  your  story,"  said  I.  "How 
about  that  'game'  you  were  'giving,'  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Cap.  Us  fellers  has  got  to 
lay  for  every  nickel,  'cause  none  of  us  is  bondhold 
ers  ;  and  they's  days  and  days  together  when  we 
don't  make  enough  to  even  starve  on. — What  I 
mean  is,  we  on'y  make  enough  to  pay  fer  agger- 
vatin'  our  appetites  with  jist  about  enough  chuck 
to  keep  us  starvin'-hungry.  So,  you  see,  when  a 
feller  ain't  got  nothin'  else  to  do,  and  his  appetite 
won't  sleep  in  the  same  bunk  with  him,  he's  bound 
to  git  onto  somepin'  crooked  and  git  up  all  sorts 
o'  dodges  to  git  along.  Some  gives  'em  one  thing, 
and  some  another,  but  you  bet  they  got  to  be 
mighty  slick  now,  'cause  people  won't  have  'or 
phans,'  and  'fits,'  and  'cripples,'  and  'drunk  fath 
ers,'  and  'mothers  that  eats  morphine,'  and  'white 
swellin','  and  'consumption,'  and  all  that  sort  o' 
taffy!  Got  to  git  'er  down  finer'n  that!  But  / 
been  a-gittin'  in  my  work  all  the  same,  don't  you 
fergit!  You  won't  ever  blow,  now?" 

"How  could  I  'blow,'  and  what  if  I  did? — I 
don't  live  here,"  I  replied. 

'9 


JAMESY 

"Well,  you  better  never  blow,  anyhow;  'cause  if 
ever  us  duffers  would  git  onto  it  you'd  be  a  spiled 
oyster!" 

"Go  on,"  said  I,  with  an  assuring  tone. 

"The  lay  I'm  on  jist  now,"  he  continued,  drop 
ping  his  voice  and  looking  cautiously  around,  "is 
a-hidin'  my  box  and  a-rushin'  in,  sudden t-like, 
where  they's  a  crowd  o'  nobs  a-talkin'  politics  er 
somepin',  and  a-jist  startin'  in,  and  'fore  they 
know  what's  a-comin'  I'm  a-flashin'  up  a  nickel  er 
a  dime,  and  a-tellin'  'em  if  I  on'y  had  enough 
more  to  make  fifty  cents  I  could  ^buy  a  blackin'- 
box,  and  wouldn't  have  to  ast  no  boot  o'  my 
grandmother!  And  two  minutes  chinnin'  does  it, 
don'tyou  see,  'cause  they  don't  knownothin'  'bout 
blackin'-boxes ;  they're  jist  as  soft  as  you  air. 
They  got  an  idy,  maybe,  that  blackin'-boxes  comes 
all  the  way  from  Chiny,  with  cokeynut  whiskers 
packed  'round  'em;  and  I  make  it  solid  by  a-say- 
in'  I'm  on'y  goin'  to  git  a  second-hand  box — see? 
But  that  ain't  the  pint — it's  the  Mr.  Nickel  I'  al 
ready  got.  Oh !  it'll  paralyze  'em  ever'  time ! 
Sometimes  fellers'll  make  up  seventy-five  cents  er 
a  dollar,  and  tell  me  to  'git  a  new  box,  and  go  into 
the  business  right.'  That's  a  thing  that  always 
rattles  me.  Now,  if  they'd  on'y  growl  a  little  and 
look  like  they  was  jist  a-puttin'  up  'cause  the  first 
one  did,  I  can  stand  it;  but  when  they  go  to  pat- 

20 


JAMESY 

tin'  me  on  the  head,  and  a-tellin'  me  'that's  right,' 
and  'not  to  be  afeard  o'  work,'  and  I'll  'come  out 
all  right,'  and  a-tellin'  me  to  'git  a  good  substan 
tial  box  while  I'm  a-gittin','  and  a-ponyin'  up 
handsome,  there's  where  I  weaken — I  do,  honest!" 
And  never  so  plainly  as  at  that  moment  did  I  see 
within  his  face  and  in  his  eyes  the  light  of  true 
nobility. 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  in  a  tone  of  voice  half 
courage,  half  apology,  "I'  got  a  family  on  my 
hands,  and  I  'jist  got  to  git  along  somehow !  I 
could  git  along  on  the  square  deal  as  long  as  mother 
was  alive — 'cause  she'd  'work — but  ever  sence  she 
died — and  that  was  winter  'fore  last — I've  kindo' 
had  to  double  on  the  old  thing  all  sorts  o'  ways. 
But  Sis  don't  know  it.  Sis  she  thinks  I'm  the 
squarest  muldoon  in  the  business,"  and  even  side 
by  side  with  the  homely  utterance  a  great  sigh 
faltered  from  his  lips. 

"And  who  is  Sis?"  I  inquired  with  new  interest. 

"Sis?"  he  repeated,  knocking  my  foot  from  the 
box,  and  leaning  back,  still  in  the  old  p'osition,  his 
hat  now  lying  on  the  ground  beside  him,  and  his 
frowzy  hair  tossed  backward  from  the  full,  broad 
brow — "Who's  Sis?"  he  repeated  with  an  upward 
smile  that  almost  dazzled  me — "W'y,  Sis  is — is — 
w'y,  Sis  is  the  boss  girl — and  don't  you  fergit  it!" 

No  need  had  he  to  tell  me  more  than  this. 
21 


JAMESY 

I  knew  who  "Sis"  was  by  the  light  of  pride  in 
the  uplifted  eyes;  I  knew  who  "Sis"  was  by  the 
exultation  in  the  broken  voice,  and  the  half-defiant 
tossing  of  the  frowzy  head;  I  knew  who  "Sis" 
was  by  the  little,  naked  hands  thrown  upward 
openly;  I  knew  who  "Sis"  was  by  the  tear  that 
dared  to  trickle  through  the  dirt  upon  her  ragged 
brother's  face.  And  don't  you  forget  it! 

0  that  boy  down  there  upon  his  knees  ! — there 
in  the  cinders  and  the  dirt — so  far,  far  down  be 
neath  us  that  we  trample  on  his  breast  and  grind 
our  heels  into  his  very  heart;  O  that  boy  there, 
with  his  lifted  eyes,  and  God's  own  glory  shining 
in  his  face,  has  taught  me,  with  an  eloquence  be 
yond  the  trick  of  mellow-sounding  words  and  met 
aphor,  that  love  may  find   a  purer  home  beneath 
the  rags  of  poverty  and  vice  than  in  all  the  great 
warm  heart  of  Charity. 

1  hardly  knew  what  impulse  prompted  me,  but 
as  the  boy  rose  to  his  feet  and  held  his  hand  out 
for  the  compensation  for  his  work,  I  caught  the 
little  dingy  palm  close,  close  within  my  own,  and 
wrung  it  as  I  would  have  wrung  the  hand  of  some 
great  conqueror. 

The  little  fellow  stared  at  me  in  wonderment, 
and  although  his  lips  were  silent,  I  can  but  believe 
that  had  they  parted  with  the  utterance  within  his 
heart  my  feelings  had  received  no  higher  recogni- 

22 


JAMESY 

tion  than  the  old  contemptuous  phrase,  "Oh,  what 
you  givin'  me?" 

"And  so  you've  got  a  family  on  your  hands?" 
I  inquired,  recovering  an  air  of  simple  curiosity, 
and  toying  in  my  pocket  with  some  bits  of  change. 
"How  much  of  a  family?" 

"On'y  three  of  us  now." 

"Only  three  of  you,  eh?  Yourself,  and  Sis, 
and — and — " 

"The  old  man,"  said  the  boy,  uneasily;  and 
after  a  pause,  in  which  he  seemed  to  swallow  an 
utterance  more  bitter,  he  added,  "And  he  ain't  no 
good  on  earth!" 

"Can't  work?"  I  queried. 

"Won't  work,"  said  the  boy,  bitterly.  "He 
'won't  work — he  won't  do  nothin' — on'y  'budge' ! 
And  I  haf  to  steer  him  in  ever'  night,  'cause  the 
cops  won't  pull  him  any  more — they  won't  let  him 
in  the  station-house  more'n  they'd  let  him  in  apar- 
ler,  'cause  he's  a  plum  goner  now,  and  liable  to 
'croke'  any  minute." 

"Liable  to  what?"  said  I. 

"Liable  to  jist  keel  over — wink  out,  you  know 
— 'cause  he  has  fits,  kindo'  jimjams,  I  guess.  Had 
a  fearful  old  matinee  with  him  last  night!  You 
see  he  comes  all  sorts  o'  games  on  me,  and  I  haf 
to  put  up  fer  him — 'cause  he's  got  to  have  whiskey, 
and  if  we  can  on'y  keep  him  about  so  full  he's  a 

23 


JAMESY 

regular  lamb ;  but  he  don't  stand  no  monkeyin' 
when  he  wants  whiskey,  now  you  bet !  Sis  can 
handle  him  better'n  me,  but  she's  been  a  losin' 
her  grip  on  him  lately — you  see  Sis  ain't  stout 
any  more,  and  been  kindo'  sick-like  so  long  she 
humors  him,  you  know,  more'n  she  ort.  And  he 
couldn't  git  on  his  pins  at  all  yisterday  morning, 
and  Sis  sent  fer  me,  and  I  took  him  down  a  pint, 
and  that  set  him  a-runnin'  so  that  when  I  left  he 
made  Sis  give  up  a  quarter  he  saw  me  slip  her; 
and  it  jist  happened  I  run  into  him  that  evening 
and  got  him  in,  or  he'd  a-froze  to  death.  I  guess 
he  must  a-kindo'  had  'em  last  night,  'cause  he  was 
the  wildest  man  you  ever  see — saw  grasshoppers 
with  paper-collars  on,  and  old  sows  with  feather- 
duster  tails,  the  durndest  programme  you  ever 
heerd  of!  And  he  got  so  bad  onc't  he  was  a-goin' 
to  belt  Sis,  and  did  try  it:  and — I  had  to  chug  him 
one  or  he'd  a-done  it.  And  then  he  cried,  and 

Sis  cried,    and  I  cri ,    I —    Dern  him !  you 

can  bet  yer  life  /  didn't  cry!"  And  as  the  boy 
spoke,  the  lips  quivered  into  stern  compression, 
the  little  hands  gripped  closer  at  his  side,  but  for 
all  that  the  flashing  eye  grew  blurred  and  the  lids 
dropped  downward. 

"That's  a  boss  shine  on  them  shoes." 
I  was  mechanically  telling  over  in  my  hand  the 
three  small  coins  I  had  drawn  from  my  pocket. 
24 


JAMESY 

"That  is  a  nice  job!"  said  I,  gazing  with  an 
unusual  show  of  admiration  at  the  work,  "and  I 
thought,"  continued  I,  with  real  regret,  "that  I 
had  two  dimes  and  a  nickel  here,  and  was  think 
ing  that,  as  these  were  Christmas-times,  I'd  just 
give  you  a  quarter  for  your  work." 

"Honest,  Cap?" 

"Honest!"  I  repeated,  "but  the  fact  is  the  two 
dimes,  as  I  thought  they  were,  are  only  two  three- 
cent  pieces,  so  I  have  only  eleven  cents  in  change, 
after  all." 

"Spect  they'd  change  a  bill  fer  you  'crost  there 
at  the  lunch-counter,"  he  suggested  with  charming 
artlessness. 

"Won't  have  time — there's  my  train  just  coup 
ling. — But  take  this — I'll  see  you  again  sometime, 
perhaps." 

"How  big  a  bill  is  it  you  want  changed?" 
asked  the  little  fellow,  with  a  most  acquisitive  ex 
pression,  and  a  swift  glance  at  our  then  lonely 
surroundings. 

"I only  have  one  bill  with  me,"  said  I  nervously, 
"and  that's  a  five." 

"Well,  here  then,"  said  the  boy,  hurriedly,  with 
another  and  more  scrutinizing  glance  about  him — 
"guess  I  can  'commodate  you."  And  as  I  turned 
in  wonder,  he  drew  from  some  mysterious  re 
cess  in  the  lining  of  his  coat,  a  roll  of  bills, 

25 


JAMESY 

from  which  he  hastily  detached  four  in  number, 
returned  the  roll ;  and  before  I  had  recovered  from 
my  surprise,  he  had  whisked  the  note  from  my 
fingers,  and  left  in  my  hand  instead  the  proper 
change. 

"This  is  on  the  dead,  now,  Cap.  Don't  you 
ever  cheep  about  me  havin'  wealth,  you  know; 
'cause  it  ain't  mine — that  is,  it  is  mine,  but  I'm 
a — There  goes  your  train.  Ta-ta!" 

"The  day  before  Christmas,"  said  I,  snatching 
his  hand,  and  speaking  hurriedly,  "the  day  before 
Christmas  I'm  coming  back,  and  if  you'll  be  here 
when  the  5:30  train  rolls  in  you'll  find  a  man  that 
wants  his  boots  blacked — maybe  to  get  married 
in,  or  something — anyway  he'll  want  a  shine  like 
this,  and  he'll  come  prepared  to  pay  the  highest 
market  price — do  you  understand?" 

"You  jist  tell  that  feller  fer  me,"  said  the  boy, 
eclipsing  the  twinkle  of  one  eye,  and  dropping  his 
voice  to  an  inflection  of  strictest  confidence,  "you 
jist  tell  that  feller  fer  me  that  I'm  his  oyster!" 

"And  you'll  meet  him,  sure?"  said  I. 

"I  will,"  said  the  boy.     And  he  kept  his  word. 

My  ride  home  was  an  incoherent  fluttering  of  the 

wings  of  time,  in  which  travail  one  fretful   hour 

was  born,  to  gasp  its  first  few  minutes  helplessly; 

then  moan,  roll  over  and  kick  out  its  legs   and 

26 


JAMESY 

sprawl  about;  then  crawl  a  little — stagger  to  its 
feet  and  totter  on ;  then  tumble  down  a  time  or  two 
and  knock  its  empty  head  against  the  floor  and 
howl ;  then  loom  up  awkwardly  on  gangling  legs, 
too  much  in  their  own  way  to  comprehend  that 
they  were  in  the  way  of  everybody  else;  then 
limp  a  little  as  it  worried  on — drop  down  ex 
hausted — moan  again — toss  up  its  hands — shriek 
out,  and  die  in  violent  convulsions. 

We  have  all  had  that  experience  of  the  car- 
wheels — had  them  enter  into  conversation  with  us 
as  we  gaily  embarked  upon  some  pleasant  trip, 
perhaps ;  had  them  rattle  off  in  scraps  of  song,  or 
lightly  twit  us  with  some  dear  one's  name,  or  even 
go  so  far  as  to  laugh  at  us  and  mock  us  for  some 
real  or  fancied  dereliction  of  car-etiquette.  I  shall 
ever  have  good  reason  to  remember  how  once  upon 
a  time  a  boy  of  fourteen,  though  greatly  under 
sized,  told  the  conductor  he  wras  only  ten,  and  al 
though  the  unsuspecting  official  accepted  the  state 
ment  as  a  truth,  with  the  proper  reduction  in  the 
fare,  the  car-wheels  called  that  boy  a  "liar"  for 
twenty  miles — and  twenty  miles  as  long  and  tedi 
ous  as  he  has  ever  compassed  in  his  journey  through 
this  vale  of  tears. 

The  car-wheels  on  this  bitter  winter  evening 
were  not  at  all  communicative.  They  were  sullen 
and  morose.  They  didn't  feel  like  singing,  and 
27 


JAMESY 

they  wouldn't  laugh.  They  had  no  jokes,  and  if 
there  was  one  peculiar  quality  of  tone  they  pos 
sessed  in  any  marked  degree  it  was  that  of  sneer 
ing.  They  had  a  harsh,  discordant  snarl,  as  it 
seemed,  and  were  spiteful  and  insinuating. 

The  topic  they  had  chosen  for  that  night's  con 
sideration  was  evidently  of  a  very  complex  and 
mysterious  nature,  and  they  gnawed  and  mumbled 
at  it  with  such  fierceness,  and,  withal,  such  sel 
fishness,  I  could  only  catch  a  flying  fragment  of  it 
now  and  then,  and  that,  I  noticed,  was  of  the 
coarsest  fibre  of  intelligence,  and  of  slangy  flavor. 
Listening  with  the  most  painful  interest,  I  at  last 
made  out  the  fact  that  the  inflection  seemed  to  be 
in  the  interrogative,  and,  with  anxiety  the  most  in 
tense,  I  slowly  came  to  comprehend  that  they  were 
desirous  of  ascertaining  the  exact  distance  be 
tween  two  given  points,  but  the  proposition  seemed 
determined  not  to  round  into  fuller  significance 
than  to  query  mockingly,  "How  fur  is  it?  How 
fur  is  it  ?  How  fur,  how  fur,  how  fur  is  it  ?' '  and 
so  on  to  a  most  exasperating  limit.  As  this  sense 
less  phrase  was  repeated  and  reiterated  in  its  grow 
ing  harshness  and  unchanging  intonation,  the  re 
lentless  pertinacity  of  the  query  grew  simply 
agonizing,  and  when  at  times  the  car  door  opened 
to  admit  a  brakeman,  or  the  train-boy,  who  had 
everything  to  sell  but  what  I  wanted,  the  empha- 
28 


JAMESY 

sized  refrain  would  lift  me  from  my  seat  and  drag 
me  up  and  down  the  aisle.  When  the  phrase  did 
eventually  writhe  round  into  form  and  shade  more 
tangible,  my  relief  was  such  that  I  sat  down,  and 
in  my  fancy  framed  a  grim,  unlovely  tune  that 
suited  it,  and  hummed  with  it,  in  an  undertone  of 
dismal  satisfaction: 

1  'ffoztf  fur — how  fur 
Is  it  from  here — 

From  here  to  Happiness?" 

When  I  returned  that  same  refrain  rode  back 
into  the  city  with  me !  All  the  gay  metropolis  was 
robing  for  the  banquet  and  the  ball.  All  the 
windows  of  the  crowded  thoroughfares  were  kind 
ling  into  splendor.  Along  the  streets  rolled  lordly 
carriages,  so  weighted  down  with  costly  silks,  and 
furs,  and  twinkling  gems,  and  unknown  treasures 
in  unnumbered  packages,  that  one  lone  ounce  of 
needed  charity  would  have  snapped  their  axles, 
and  a  feather's  weight  of  pure  benevolence  would 
have  splintered  every  spoke. 

And  the  old  refrain  rode  with  me  through  it  all 
— as  stoical,  relentless  and  unchangeable  as  fate — 
and  in  the  same  depraved  and  slangy  tone  in  which 
it  seemed  to  find  an  especial  pride,  it  sang,  and 
sang  again : 

"How  fur— how  fur 
Is  it  from  here— 

From  here  to  Happiness?" 
29 


JAMESY 

The  train  that  for  five  minutes  had  been  lessen 
ing  in  speed,  toiled  painfully  along,  and  as  I  arose 
impatiently  and  reached  behind  me  for  my  over 
coat,  a  cheery  voice  cried,  "Hello,  Cap!  Want  a 
lift?  I'll  he'p  you  with  that  'benjamin'  "  ;  and  as 
I  looked  around  I  saw  the  grimy  features  of  my 
little  hero  of  the  brush  and  box. 

"Hello!"  said  I,  as  much  delighted  as  surprised. 
"Where  did  you  drop  from?" 

"Oh,  I  collared  this  old  hearse  a  mile  or  so  back 
yonder,"  said  the  little  fellow,  gayly,  standing  on 
the  seat  behind  me  and  holding  up  the  coat.  "Been 
a-doin'  circus-business  on  the  steps  out  there  fer 
half  an  hour.  You  bet  I  had  my  eye  on  you,  all 
the  same,  though." 

"You  had,  eh?"  I  exclaimed,  gladly,  although 
I  instinctively  surmised  his  highest  interest  in 
me  was  centred  in  my  pocket-book.  "You  had> 
eh?"  I  repeated  with  more  earnestness. — "Well, 
I'm  glad  of  that,  Charlie — or,  what  is  your  name  ?' ' 

"Squatty,"  said  the  boy.  Then  noticing  the  look 
of  surprise  upon  my  face,  he  added  soberly: 
"That  ain't  my  'sure-enough'  name,  you  know; 
that's  what  the  boys  calls  me.  Sis  calls  me 
Jamesy." 

"Well,  Jamesy,"  I  continued,  buttoning  my 
collar  and  drawing  on  my  gloves,  "I'm  mighty 
glad  to  see  you,  and  if  you  don't  believe  it,  just 
,  30 


JAMESY 

go  down  in  that  right-hand  overcoat-pocket  and 
you'll  find  out." 

The  little  fellow  needed  no  second  invitation, 
and  as  he  drew  forth  a  closely-folded  package  the 
look  of  curiosity  upon  his  face  deepened  to  one  of 
blank  bewilderment. 

"Open  it,"  said  I,  smiling  at  the  little  puzzled 
face;  "open  it — it's  for  you.' 

"O,  here,  Cap,"  said  the  boy,  dropping  the 
package  on  the  seat,  and  holding  up  a  rigid  finger, 
"you're  a-givin'  me  this,  ain't  you?" 

"I'm  giving  you  the  package,  certainly,"  said 
I,  somewhat  bewildered.  "Open  it — it's  a  Christ 
mas  present  for  you — open  it." 

"What's  your  idy  o'  layin'  fer  me?"  asked  the 
boy  with  a  troubled  and  uneasy  air.  "I've  been 
a-givin'  you  square  business  right  along,  ain't  I?" 

"Why,  Jamesy,"  said  I,  as  I  vaguely  compre 
hended  the  real  drift  of  his  thought,  "the  package 
is  for  you,  and  if  you  won't  open  it  I  will,"  and 
as  I  spoke  I  began  unfolding  it.  "Here,"  said  I, 
"is  a  pair  of  gloves,  a  little  girl,  about  your  size, 
told  me  to  give  to  you,  because  I  was  telling  her 
about  you,  over  where  I  live,  and  it's  'a  clear 
case,'  "  and  I  laughed  lightly  to  myself  as  I  noticed 
a  slow  flush  creeping  to  his  face.  "And  here," 
said  I,  "is  a  'bang  up'  pair  of  good  old-fashioned 
socks,  and,  if  they'll  fit  you,  there's  an  old  woman 

31 


JAMESY 

that  wears  specs  and  a  mole  on  her  nose,  told  me 
to  tell  you,  for  her,  that  she  knit  them  for  your 
Christmas  present,  and  if  you  don't  wear  them 
she'll  never  forgive  you.  And  here,"  I  continued, 
"is  a  cap,  as  fuzzy  as  a  woolly-worm,  and  as  warm 
a  cap,  I  reckon,  as  you  ever  stood  on  your  head 
in;  it's  a  cheap  cap,  but  I  bought  it  with  my  own 
money,  and  money  that  I  worked  mighty  hard  to 
get,  because  I  ain't  rich;  now,  if  I  was  rich,  I'd 
buy  you  a  plug;  but  I've  got  an  idea  that  this  lit 
tle,  old,  woolly  cap,  with  earbobs  to  it,  and  a 
snapper  to  go  under  your  chin,  don't  you  see, 
won't  be  a  bad  cap  to  knock  around  in,  such 
weather  as  this.  What  do  you  say  now !  Try  her 
on  once,"  and  as  I  spoke  I  turned  to  place  it  on 
his  head. 

"Oomh-ooh !"  he  negatively  murmured,  putting 
out  his  hand,  his  closed  lips  quivering — the  little 
frowzy  head  drooping  forward,  and  the  ragged 
shoes  shuffling  on  the  floor. 

"Come,"  said  I,  my  own  voice  growing  curi 
ously  changed ;  "won't  you  take  these  presents? 
They  are  yours;  you  must  accept  them,  Jamesy, 
not  because  they're  worth  so  very  much,  or  be 
cause  they're  very  fine,"  I  continued,  bending 
down  and  folding  up  the  parcel,  "but  because, 
you  know,  I  want  you  to,  and — and — you  must 
take  them;  you  must!"  and  as  I  concluded,  I 

32 


JAMESY 

thrust  the  tightly- folded  parcel  beneath  his  arm, 
and  pressed  the  little  tattered  elbow  firmly  over 
it.  "There  you  are,"  said  I. — "Freeze  onto  it, 
and  we'll  skip  off  here  at  the  avenue.  Come." 

I  hardly  dared  to  look  behind  me  till  I  found 
myself  upon  the  street,  but  as  I  threw  an  eager 
glance  over  my  shoulder  I  saw  the  little  fellow  fol 
lowing,  not  bounding  joyfully,  but  with  a  solemn 
step,  the  little  parcel  hugged  closely  to  his  side, 
and  his  eyes  bent  soberly  upon  the  frozen  ground. 

"And  how's  Sis  by  this  time?"  I  asked  cheerily, 
flinging  the  question  backward,  and  walking  on 
more  briskly. 

"  'Bout  the  same,"  said  the  boy,  brightening  a 
little,  and  skipping  into  a  livelier  pace. 

"About  the  same,  eh?  and  how's  that?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  she  can't  get  around  much  like  she  used 
to,  you  know;  but  she's  a-gittin'  better  all  the 
time.  She  set  up  mighty  nigh  all  day  yisterday"  ; 
and  as  the  boy  spoke  the  eyes  lifted  with  the  old 
flash,  and  the  little  frowzy  head  tossed  with  the 
old  defiance. 

"Why,  she's  not  down  sick?"  said  I,  a  sudden 
ache  of  sorrow  smiting  me. 

"Yes,"  replied  the  boy,  "she's  been  bad  a  long 
time.  You  see,"  he  broke  in  byway  of  explana 
tion,  "she  didn't  have  no  shoes  ner  nothiiT  when 

33 


JAMESY 

winter  come,  and  kindo'  took  cold,  you  know,  and 
that  give  her  the  whoopin' -cough  so's  she  couldn't 
git  around  much.  You  jist  ort  to  see  her  now! — 
Oh,  she's  a-gittin'  all  right  now,  you  can  bet!  and 
she  said  yisterday  she'd  be  plum  well  Christmas, 
and  that's  on'y  to-morry. — Guess  not!"  and  as 
the  little  fellow  concluded  this  exultant  speech,  he 
circled  round  me,  and  then  shot  forward  like  a 
rocket. 

"Hi!  Jamesy!"  I  called  after  him,  pausing  at 
a  stairway  and  stepping  in  the  door. 

The  little  fellow  joined  me  in  an  instant.  "Want 
that  shine  now?"  he  inquired  with  panting  eager 
ness. 

"Not  now,  Jamesy,"  said  I,  "for  I'm  going  to 
be  quite  busy  for  a  while.  This  is  my  stopping- 
place  here — the  second  door  on  the  right,  up-stairs, 
remember — and  I  work  there  when  I'm  in  the  city, 
and  I  sometimes  sleep  there,  when  I  work  late. 
And  now  I  want  to  ask  a  very  special  favor  of 
you,"  I  continued,  taking  a  little  sealed  packet 
from  my  vest:  "here's  a  little  box  that  you're  to 
take  to  Sis,  with  my.  compliments — the  compli 
ments  of  the  season,  you  understand, — and  tell  her 
I  sent  it,  with  particular  directions  that  she 
shouldn't  break  it  open  till  Christmas  morning — 
not  till  Christmas  morning,  understand!  Then 
you  tell  her  that  I  would  like  very  much  to  come 

34 


JAMESY 

and  see  her,  and  if  she  says  all  right, — and  you 
must  give  me  a  good  'send-off,'  and  she'll  say  all 
right  if  'Jamesy'  says  all  right, — then  come  back 
here,  say  two  hours  from  now,  or  three  hours,  or 
to-night  anyway,  and  we'll  go  down  and  see  Sis 
together — what  do  you  say?" 

The  boy  nodded  dubiously,  "Honest — must  I 
do  all  that,  sure  enough?" 

"Will  you?"  said  I;  "that's  what  I  want  to 
know";  and  I  pushed  back  the  little  dusky  face 
and  looked  into  the  bewildered  eyes. 

'•'•Solid?"  he  queried,  gravely. 

"  'Solid,'  "  I  repeated,  handing  him  the  box. 
"Will  you  come?" 

"W'y,  'course  I  will,  on'y  I  was  jist  a-think- 
in'— " 

"Just  thinking  what,"  said  I,  as  the  little  fel 
low  paused  abruptly  and  shook  the  box  suspi 
ciously  at  his  ear.  "Just  thinking  what?"  I  re 
peated;  "for  I  must  go  now;  good-bye. — Just 
thinking  what?" 

"O,  nothin',"  said  the  boy,  backing  off  and 
staring  at  me  in  a  phase  of  wonder  akin  to  awe. — 
"Nothin',  on'y  I  was  jist  a-thinkin'  that  you  was  a 
little  the  curiousest  rooster  /ever  see." 

Three  hours  later,  as  I  sat  alone,  he  came  in 
upon  me  timidly  to  say  he  hadn't  been  home  yet, 
having  "run  acrost  the  old  man  jist  a-bilin',  and 

35 


JAMESY 

had  to  git  him  corralled  'fore  he  dropped  down 
somers  in  the  snow;  but  I'm  a-gittin' 'long  bully 
with  him  now,  he  added,  with  a  deep  sigh  of  re 
lief,  "  'cause  he's  so  full  he'll  haf  to  let  go  purty 
soon.  Say  you'll  be  here?" 

I  nodded  silently,  and  he  was  gone. 

The  merry  peals  of  laughter  rang  up  from  the 
streets  like  mockery.  The  jingling  of  bells,  the 
clatter  and  confusion  of  the  swarming  thorough 
fares  flung  up  to  me  not  one  glad  murmur  of  de 
light;  the  faint  and  far-off  blaring  of  a  dreamy 
waltz,  blown  breeze-like  over  the  drowsy  ear  of 
night,  had  sounded  sweeter  to  me  had  I  stood 
amidst  the  band,  with  every  bellowing  horn  about 
my  ears,  and  the  drums  and  clashing  cymbals 
howling  mad. 

I  couldn't  work,  I  couldn't  read,  I  couldn't  rest ; 
I  could  only  pace  about.  I  heard  the  clock  strike 
ten,  and  strike  it  hard ;  I  heard  it  strike  eleven, 
viciously;  and  twelve  it  held  out  at  arm's  length, 
and  struck  it  full  between  the  eyes,  and  let  it  drop 
— stone  dead.  O  I  saw  the  blood  ooze  from  its 
ears,  and  saw  the  white  foam  freeze  upon  its  lips ! 
I  was  alone — alone ! 

It  was  three  o'clock  before  the  boy  returned. 

"Been  a  long  while,"  he  began,  "but  I  had  a 
fearful  time  with  the  old  man,  and  he  went  on  so 
when  I  did  git  him  in  I  was  most  afeared  to  leave 

36 


JAMESY 

him  ;  but  he  kindo'  went  to  sleep  at  last,  and  Molly 
she  come  over  to  see  how  Sis  was  a-gittin' ;  and 
Sis  said  she'd  like  to  see  yozt  if  you'd  come  notv, 
you  know,  while  they  ain't  no  racket  goin'  on." 

"Come,  then,"  said  I,  buttoning  my  coat  closely 
at  the  throat,  "I  am  ready";  and  a  moment  later 
we  had  stepped  into  the  frosty  night.  We  moved 
along  in  silence,  the  little  fellow  half  running, 
half  sliding  along  the  frozen  pavement  in  the  lead  ; 
and  I  noted,  with  a  pleasurable  thrill,  that  he  had 
donned  the  little  fuzzy  cap  and  mittens,  and  from 
time  to  time  was  flinging,  as  he  ran,  admiring 
glances  at  his  shadow  on  the  snow. 

Our  way  veered  but  a  little  from  the  very  centre 
of  the  city,  but  led  mainly  along  through  narrow 
streets  and  alley-ways,  where  the  rear  ends  of  mas 
sive  business  blocks  had  dwindled  down  to  insig 
nificant  proportions  to  leer  grimly  at  us  as  we 
passed  little  grated  windows  and  low,  scowling 
doors.  Occasionally  we  passed  a  clump  of  empty 
boxes,  barrels,  and  such  debris  of  merchandise  as 
had  been  crowded  pell-mell  from  some  inner  stor 
age  by  their  newer  and  more  dignified  compan 
ions  ;  and  now  and  then  we  passed  an  empty  bus, 
bulging  up  in  the  darkness  like  a  behemoth  of  the 
olden  times ;  or,  jutting  from  still  narrower  pas 
sages,  the  sloping  ends  of  drays  and  carts  innum 
erable.  And  along  even  as  forbidding  a  defile  as 

37 


JAMESY 

this  we  groped  until  we  came  upon  a  low,  square, 
brick  building  that  might  have  served  at  one  time 
as  a  wash-house,  or,  less  probably,  perhaps,  a  dairy. 
There  was  but  one  window  in  the  front,  and  that 
but  little  larger  than  an  ordinary  pane  of  glass.  In 
the  sides,  however,  and  higher  up,  was  a  row  of 
gratings,  evidently  designed  more  to  serve  as  ven 
tilation  than  as  openings  for  light.  There  was  but 
one  opening,  an  upright  doorway,  half  above 
ground,  half  below,  with  little  narrow  side-steps 
leading  down  to  it.  A  light  shone  dimly  from  the 
little  window,  and  as  the  boy  motioned  me  to  pause 
and  listen,  a  sound  of  female  voices  talking  in  an 
undertone  was  audible,  mingled  with  a  sound  like 
that  of  some  one  snoring  heavily. 

"Hear  the  old  man  a-gittin'  in  his  work?" 
whispered  the  boy. 

I  nodded.      "He's  asleep?" 

"You  bet  he's  asleep!"  said  the  boy,  still  in  a 
whisper;  "and  he'll  jist  about  stay  with  it  that- 
away  fer  five  hours,  anyhow.  What  time  you  got 
now,  Cap?" 

"A  quarter  now  till  four,"  I  replied,  peering  at 
my  watch. 

"W'y,  it's  Christmas,  then!"  he  cried  in  muf 
fled  rapture  of  delight ;  but  abruptly  checking  his 
emotion,  he  beckoned  me  a  little  farther  from  the 
door,  and  spoke  in  a  confidential  whisper. 

38 


JAMESY 

"Cap,  look  here,  now;  'fore  we  go  in  I  want 
you  to  promise  me  one  thing — 'cause  you  can  fix  it 
and  she'll  never  drop !  Now,  here,  I  want  to  put 
up  a  job  on  Sis,  you  understand!" 

"What!"  I  exclaimed,  starting  back  and  star 
ing  at  the  boy  in  amazement.  "Put  up  a  job  on 
Sis?" 

"O,  look  here,  now,  Cap  ;  you  ain't  a-goin'  back 
on  a  feller  like  that!"  broke  in  the  little  fellow,  in 
a  mingled  tone  of  pleading  and  reproof;  "and  if 
you  don't  help  a  feller  I'll  haf  to  wait  till  broad 
daylight,  'cause  we  ain't  got  no  clock." 

"No  clock!"  I  repeated  with  increased  bewil 
derment. 

"Oh,  come,  Cap,  what  do  you  say?  It  ain't  no 
lie,  you  know;  all  you  got  to  do'll  be  to  jist  tell 
Sis  it's  Christmas — as  though  you  didn't  want  me 
to  hear,  you  know;  and  then  she'll  git  my 'Christ 
mas  Gift ! '  first,  you  know ;  and,  oh,  lordy !  won't 
she  think  she's  played  it  fine!"  and  as  I  slowly 
comprehended  the  meaning  of  the  little  fellow's 
plot  I  nodded  my  willingness  to  assist  in  "putting 
up  the  job." 

"Now,  hold  on  a  second!"  continued  the  little 
fellow,  in  the  wildest  glee,  darting  through  an 
opening  in  a  high  board  fence  a  dozen  steps  away, 
and  in  an  instant  reappearing  with  a  bulky  parcel, 
which,  as  he  neared  me,  I  discovered  was  a  paper 

39 


JAMESY 

flour-sack  half  filled,  the  other  half  lapped  down 
and  fastened  with  a  large  twine  string.  "Now 
this  stuff,"  he  went  on  excitedly,  "you  must  jug 
gle  in  without  Sis  seein'  it — here,  shove  it  under 
your  'ben,'  here — there — that's  business!  Now 
when  you  go  in,  you're  to  set  down  with  the  other 
side  to'rds  the  bed,  you  see,  and  when  Sis  hollers, 
'•Christmas  Gift,''  you  know,  you  jist  kindo'  let  it 
slide  down  to  the  floor  like,  and  I'll  nail  it  slick 
enough — though  I'll  p'tend,  you  know,  it  ain't 
Christmas  yet,  and  look  sold  out,  and  say  it  wasn't 
fair  fer  you  to  tell  her,  and  all  that ;  and  then  I'll 
open  up  suddent-like,  and  if  you  don't  see  old  Sis 
bug  out  them  eyes  of  hern  I  don't  want  a  cent!" 
And  as  the  gleeful  boy  concluded  this  speech,  he 
put  his  hands  over  his  mouth  and  dragged  me 
down  the  little,  narrow  steps. 

"Here's  that  feller  come  to  see  you,  Sis!"  he 
announced  abruptly,  opening  the  door  and  peering 
in.  "Come  on,"  he  said,  turning  to  me.  I  fol 
lowed,  closing  the  door,  and  looking  curiously 
around.  A  squabby,  red-faced  woman,  sitting 
on  the  edge  of  a  low  bed,  leered  upon  me,  but 
with  no  salutation.  An  old  cook-stove,  propped 
up  with  bricks,  stood  back  against  the  wall  directly 
opposite,  and  through  the  warped  and  broken 
doors  in  front  sent  out  a  dismal  suggestion  of  the 
fire  that  burned  within.  At  the  side  of  this,  prone 
40 


JAMESY 

upon  the  floor,  lay  the  wretched  figure  of  a  man, 
evidently  in  the  deepest  stage  of  drunkenness,  and 
thrown  loosely  over  him  was  an  old  tattered  piece 
of  carpet  and  a  little  checkered  shawl. 

There  was  no  furniture  to  speak  of ;  one  chair 
— and  that  was  serving  as  a  stand — sat  near  the 
bed,  a  high  hump-shouldered  bottle  sitting  on  it, 
a  fruit-can  full  of  water,  and  a  little  dim  and 
smoky  lamp  that  glared  sulkily. 

"Jamesy,  can't  you  git  the  man  a  cheer  er 
somepin'  ?"  queried  a  thin  voice  from  the  bed;  at 
which  the  red-faced  woman  rose  reluctantly  with 
the  rather  sullen  words:  "He  can  sit  here,  I 
reckon,"  while  the  boy  looked  at  me  significantly 
and  took  up  a  position  near  the  "stand." 

"So  this  is  Sis?"  I  said,  with  reverence. 

The  little,  haggard  face  I  bent  above  was  beau 
tiful.  The  eyes  were  dark  and  tender — very 
tender,  and  though  deeply  sunken  were  most 
childish  in  expression  and  star-pure  and  luminous. 
She  reached  a  wasted  little  hand  out  to  me,  saying 
simply:  "It  was  mighty  good  in  you  to  give 
them  things  to  Jamesy,  and  send  me  that  mo — 
that — that  little  box,  you  know — on'y  I  guess  I — I 
won't  need  it."  As  she  spoke  a  smile  of  perfect 
sweetness  rested  on  the  face,  and  the  hand  within 
my  own  nestled  in  dove-like  peace. 

The  boy  bent  over  the  white  face  from  behind 


JAMESY 

and  whispered  something  in  her  ear,  trailing  the 
little  laughing  lips  across  her  brow  as  he  looked 
up. 

"Not  now,  Jamesy;  wait  awhile." 

"Ah!"  said  I,  shaking  my  head  with  feigned 
merriment,  "don't  you  two  go  to  plotting  about 
me!" 

"Oh,  hello,  no,  Cap!"  exclaimed  the  boy,  as- 
suringly.  "I  was  on'y  jist  a-tellin'  Sis  to  ast  you 
if  she  mightn't  open  that  box  now — honest!  And 
you  jist  ask  her  if  you  don't  believe  me — /won't 
listen."  And  the  little  fellow  gave  me  a  look  of 
the  most  penetrative  suggestiveness ;  and  when  a 
moment  later  the  glad  words,  "Christmas  Gift! 
Jamesy,"  rang  out  quaveringly  in  the  thin  voice, 
the  little  fellow  snatched  the  sack  up,  in  a  par- 
exysm  of  delight,  and  before  the  girl  had  time  to 
lift  the  long  dark  lashes  once  upon  his  merry  face, 
he  had  emptied  its  contents  out.  tumultuously  upon 
the  bed. 

"You  got  it  onto  me,  Sis!"  cried  the  little  fel 
low,  dancing  wildly  round  the  room;  "got  it  onto 
me  this  time !  but  I'm  game,  don't  you  fergit,  and 
don't  put  up  nothin'  snide!  How'll  them  shoes 
there  ketch  you?  and  how's  this  fer  a  cloak? — is 
them  enough  beads  to  suit  you?  And  how's  this 
fer  a  hat — feather  and  all?  And  how's  this  fer  a 
dress — made  and  ever'thing?  and  I'd  a-got  zcorsik 
42 


JAMESY 

with  it  if  he'd  a  on'y  had  any  little  enough.  You 
won't  look  fly  ner  nothin'  when  you  throw  all  that 
style  on  you  in  the  morning! — Guess  not!"  And 
the  delighted  boy  went  off  upon  another  wild  ex 
cursion  round  the  room. 

"Lean  down  here,"  said  the  girl,  a  great  light  in 
her  eyes  and  the  other  slender  hand  sliding  from 
beneath  the  covering.  "Here  is  the  box  you  sent 
me,  and  I've  opened  it — it  wasn't  right,  you  know, 
but  somepin'  kindo'  said  to  open  it  'fore  morn 
ing — and — and  I  opened  it."  And  the  eyes 
seemed  asking  my  forgiveness,  yet  filled  with 
great  bewilderment.  "You  see,"  she  went  on, 
the  thin  voice  falling  in  a  fainter  tone,  "I  knowed 
that  money  in  the  box — that  is,  the  bills — I  knowed 
them  bills,  'cause  one  of  'em  had  a  ink-spot  on  it, 
and  the  other  ones  had  been  pinned  with  it — they 
•wasn't  pinned  together  when  you  sent  'em,  but 
the  holes  was  in  where  they  had  been  pinned,  and 
they  was  all  pinned  together  when  Jamesy  had 
'em — 'cause  Jamesy  used  to  have  them  very  bills — 
he  didn't  think  /  knowed, — but  onc't  when  he 
was  asleep,  and  father  was  a-goin'  through  his 
clothes,  I  happened  to  find  'em  in  his  coat  'fore 
he  did ;  and  I  counted  'em,  and  hid  'em  back 
ag'in,  and  father  didn't  find  'em,  and  Jamesy  never 
knowed  it. — I  never  said  nothin',  'cause  somepin' 
kindo'  said  to  me  it  was  all  right ;  and  somepin' 

43 


JAMESY 

kindo'  said  I'd  git  all  these  things  here,  too — on'y 
I  won't  need  'em,  ner  the  money,  nor  nothin'. 
How  did  you  get  the  money?  That's  all!" 

The  boy  had  by  this  time  approached  the  bed, 
and  was  gazing  curiously  upon  the  solemn  little 
face. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Sis?"  he  asked 
in  wonderment;  "ain't  you  glad?" 

"I'm  mighty  $*&+  Jamesy,"  she  said,  the  little, 
thin  hands  reaching  for  his  own.  "Guess  I'm  too 
glad,  'cause  I  can't  do  nothin'  on'y  jist  feel  glad; 
and  somepin'  kindo'  says  that  that's  the  gladdest 
glad  in  all  the  world.  Jamesy!" 

"Oh,  shaw,  Sis!  Why  don't  you  tell  a  feller 
what's  the  matter?"  said  the  boy,  uneasily. 

The  white  hands  linked  more  closely  with  the 
brown,  and  the  pure  face  lifted  to  the  grimy  one 
till  they  were  blent  together  in  a  kiss. 

"Be  good  to  father,  fer  you  know  he  used  to  be 
so  good  to  us." 

"OSis!  Sis!" 

"Molly!" 

The  squabby,  red-faced  woman  threw  herself 
upon  her  knees  and  kissed  the  thin  hands  wildly 
and  with  sobs. 

"Molly,  somepin'  kindo'  says  that  you  must 
dress  me  in  the  morning — but  I  won't  need  the  hat, 


44 


JAMESY 

and  you  must  take  it  home  fer  Nannie —  Don't — 
don't  cry  so  loud;  you'll  wake  father." 

I  bent  my  head  down  above  the  frowzy  one  and 
moaned — moaned. 

"And  you,  sir,"  went  on  the  failing  voice, 
reaching  for  my  hand,  "you — you  must  take  this 
money  back — you  must  take  it  back,  fer  I  don't 
need  it.  You  must  take  it  back  and — and — give 
it — give  it  to  the  poor."  And  even  with  the  utter 
ance  upon  the  gracious  lips  the  glad  soul  leaped 
and  fluttered  through  the  open  gates. 


45 


BELLS  JANGLED 


BELLS  JANGLED 


I  lie  low-coiled  in  a  nest  of  dreams; 

The  lamp  gleams  dim  i'  the  odorous  gloom, 
And  the  stars  at  the  casement  leak  long  gleams 

Of  misty  light  through  the  haunted  room 
Where  I  lie  low-coiled  in  dreams. 


The  night-winds  ooze  o'er  my  dusk-drowned  face 
In  a  dewy  flood  that  ebbs  and  flows, 

Washing  a  surf  of  dim  white  lace 

Under  my  throat  and  the  dark  red  rose 

In  the  shade  of  my  dusk-drowned  face. 

There's  a  silken  strand  of  some  strange  sound 

Slipping  out  of  a  skein  of  song:  j 
Eeriely  as  a  call  unwound 

From  a  fairy-bugle,  it  slides  along 
In  a  silken  strand  of  sound. 


There's  the  tinkling  drip  of  a  faint  guitar; 

There's  a  gurgling  flute,  and  a  blaring  horn 
Blowing  bubbles  of  tune  afar 

O'er  the  misty  heights  of  the  hills  of  morn, 
To  the  drip  of  a  faint  guitar. 

And  I  dream  that  I  neither  sleep  nor  wake — 

Careless  am  I  if  I  wake  or  sleep, 
For  my  soul  floats  out  on  the  waves  that  break 

In  crests  of  song  on  the  shoreless  deep 
Where  I  neither  sleep  nor  wake. 

49 


AN  ADJUSTABLE  LUNATIC 


AN  ADJUSTABLE  LUNATIC 

"AN  'adjustable  lunatic'?" 

"Yes,  sir,  an  adjustable  lunatic — you  may  know 
I  don't  make  a  business  of  insanity,  or  I  wouldn't 
be  running  at  large  here  on  the  streets  of  the 
city." 

It  was  on  the  morning  of  St.  Patrick's  Day.  I 
had  been  drifting  aimlessly  around  the  city  for 
hours,  tossed  about  by  the  restless  tide  of  human 
ity  that  ebbed  and  flowed  in  true  sea-fashion  at 
the  Washington  and  Illinois  street  crossing.  The 
few  friends  I  had  been  fortunate  enough  to  fall  in 
with  prior  to  the  parade  I  had  been  unfortunate 
enough  to  lose  in  the  flurry  and  excitement  attend 
ing  that  event;  and,  brought  to  a  sudden  anchor 
age  at  the  Bates  House  landing,  I  found  myself  at 
the  mercy  of  a  boundless  throng  that  held  not  one 
familiar  face.  It  was  a  literal  jam  at  that  juncture, 
and  anxious  and  impatient  as  I  was  to  break  away, 
I  was  forced  into  a  bondage  which,  though  not 
exactly  agreeable,  was  at  least  the  source  of  an 
experience  that  will  linger  in  my  memory  fresh 
and  clear  when  every  other  feature  of  the  day 
shall  have  faded. 

53 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

I  had  been  crowded  into  a  position  on  a  step  of 
the  stairway  that  gave  me  a  lean  upon  the  balus 
trade  and  placed  me  head  and  shoulders  above  the 
crowd;  and.  although  I  comprehended  the  help 
lessness  of  my  position,  I  was,  in  a  manner,  thank 
ful  for  the  opportunity  it  afforded  me  to  study  the 
unsuspecting  subjects  just  below.  As  my  hungry 
eyes  went  foraging  about  from  face  to  face  they 
fell  upon  the  features  of  an  individual  so  singularly 
abstracted  in  appearance  and  so  apparently  oblivi 
ous  to  his  surroundings,  that  I  mentally  congratu 
lated  him  upon  his  enviable  disposition. 

He  was  a  slender  man,  of  thirty  years,  perhaps; 
not  tall,  but  something  over  medium  height;  he 
had  dark  hair  and  eyes,  with  a  complexion  much 
too  fair  to  correspond  ;  was  not  richly  dressed,  but 
neatly,  and  in  good  taste. 

Instinctively  I  wondered  who  and  what  he  was ; 
and  my  speculative  fancy  went  to  work  and  made 
a  lawyer  of  him — then  a  minister — an  artist — a 
musician — an  actor — and  a  dancing-master.  Sud 
denly  I  found  my  stare  returned  with  equal  fervor, 
and  tried  to  look  away,  but  something  held  me. 
He  was  elbowing  his  way  to  where  I  stood,  and 
smiling  as  he  came. 

"I  don't  know  you,"  he  said,  when,  after  an 
almost  superhuman  effort,  he  had  gained  my  side, 
to  the  discomfiture  of  a  brace  of  mangy  little  boot- 

54 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

blacks  that  occupied  the  step  below — "I  don't 
know  you  personally,  but  you  look  bored.  I'm 
troubled  with  the  same  disease  and  want  com 
pany — as  the  poet  of  the  Sierras  wails,  'How  all 
alone  a  man  may  be  in  crowds  ! '  '  Something  in 
the  utterance  made  me  offer  him  my  hand. 

He  grasped  it  warmly.  "It's  curious,"  he  said, 
"how  friends  are  made  and  where  true  fellowship 
begins.  Now  we've  known  each  other  all  our 
lives  and  never  met  before.  What  d'ye  say?" 

I  smiled  approval  at  the  odd  assertion. 

"But  tell  me,"  he  continued,  "what  conclusion 
you  have  arrived  at  in  your  study  of  me ;  come, 
now,  be  frank — what  do  you  make  of  me?" 

Although  I  found  myself  considerably  startled, 
I  feigned  composure  and  acknowledged  that  I  had 
been  speculating  as  to  who  and  what  he  was,  but 
found  myself  unable  to  define  a  special  char 
acter. 

"I  thought  so,"  he  said.  "No  one  ever  reads 
my  character — no  one  ever  will.  Why,  I've  had 
phrenologists  groping  around  among  my  bumps 
by  the  hour  to  no  purpose,  and  physiognomists 
driving  themselves  cross-eyed ;  but  they  never 
found  it,  and  they  never  will.  The  very  things  of 
which  I  am  capable  they  invariably  place  beyond 
my  capacity;  and,  with  like  sageness,  the  very 
things  I  can't  do  they  declare  me  to  be  a  master 

55 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC 

hand  at.  But  I  like  to  worry  them ;  it's  fun  for 
me.  Why,  old  Fowler  himself,  here  the  other 
night,  thumbed  my  head  as  mellow  as  a  May,. 
apple,  and  never  came  within  a  mile  of  it!  Some 
characters  are  readable  enough,  I'm  willing  to  ad 
mit.  Your  face,  for  instance,  is  a  bulletin-board 
to  me,  but  you  can't  read  mine,  for  I'm  neither  a 
doctor,  lawyer,  artist,  actor,  musician,  nor  any 
thing  else  you  may  have  in  your  mind.  You 
might  guess  your  way  all  through  the  dictionary 
and  then  not  get  it.  It's  simply  an  impossibility, 
that's  all." 

I  laughed  uneasily,  for  although  amused  at  the 
quaint  humor  of  his  language,  a  nervous  fluttering 
of  the  eyes  and  a  spasmodic  twitching  of  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  made  me  think  his  manner 
merely  an  affectation.  But  I  was  interested,  and 
as  his  conversation  seemed  to  invite  the  interroga 
tion,  I  flatly  asked  him  to  indulge  my  curiosity 
and  tell  me  what  he  was. 

"Wait  till  the  crowd  thins,  and  maybe  I  will. 
In  the  meantime  here's  a  cigar  and  here's  a  light 
— as  Mr.  Quilp  playfully  remarks  to  Tom  Scott — 
'Smoke  away,  you  dog  you !' ' 

"Well,  you're  a  character,"  said  I,  dubiously. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "but  you  can't  tell  what 
kind,  and  I  can  tell  you  the  very  trade  you  work 
at." 

56 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC 

I  smiled  incredulously. 

"Now  don't  look  lofty  and  assume  a  profes 
sional  air,  for  you're  only  a  mechanic,  and  a  sign- 
painter  at  that." 

Although  he  spoke  with  little  courtesy  of  ad 
dress,  there  was  a  subtle  something  in  his  eye  that 
drew  me  magnet-like  and  held  me.  I  was  silent. 

"Want  to  know  how  I  became  aware  of  that 
fact?"  he  went  on,  with  a  quick,  sharp  glance  at 
my  bewildered  face.  "There's  nothing  wonder 
ful  about  my  knowing  that ;  I've  had  my  eye  on 
you  for  two  hours,  and  you  stare  at  every  sign 
board  you  pass,  worse  than  a  country-jake ;  and 
once  or  twice  I  saw  you  stop  and  study  carefully 
some  fresh  design,  or  some  new  style  of  letter. 
You're  a  stranger  here  in  the  city,  too.  Want  to 
know  how  I  can  tell  ?  Because  you  walk  like  you 
were  actually  going  some  place ;  but  I  notice  that 
you  never  get  there,  for  continually  crossing  and 
recrossing  streets,  and  back-tracking  past  show- 
windows,  and  congratulating  yourself,  doubtless, 
upon  the  thorough  business  air  of  your  reflection 
in  the  plate  glass.  Come,  we  can  get  through 
now;  let's  walk." 

I  followed  him  unhesitatingly.  To  say  that  I 
was  simply  curious  would  be  too  mild ;  I  was  fas 
cinated,  and  to  that  degree  I  actually  fastened  on 
his  arm,  and  clung  there  till  we  had  quite  escaped 

57 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

the  crowd.  "I  like  you,  some  way,"  he  said, 
"but  you're  too  impulsive  ;  you  let  your  fancy  get 
away  with  your  better  judgment.  Now,  you  don't 
know  me,  and  I'm  even  pondering  whether  to 
frankly  unbosom  to  you,  or  give  you  the  slip  ;  and 
I'll  not  leave  the  proposition  to  you  to  decide,  for 
I  know  you'd  say  'unbosom' ;  so  I'll  think  about 
it  quietly  for  a  while  yet  and  give  you  an  unbiased 
verdict. 

We  walked  on  in  silence  for  the  distance,  per 
haps,  of  half  a  dozen  blocks,  turning  and  angling 
about  till  we  came  upon  an  open  stairway  in  an  old 
unpainted  brick  building,  where  my  strange  com 
panion  seemed  to  pause  mechanically. 

"Do  you  live  here?"  I  asked. 

"I  stay  here,"  he  replied,  "for  I  don't  call  it 
living  to  be  fastened  up  in  this  old  sepulchre.  I 
like  it  well  enough  at  night,  for  then  I  feast  and 
fatten  on  the  gloom  and  glower  that  infest  it;  but 
in  the  normal  atmosphere  of  day  my  own  room 
looks  repellent,  and  I  only  visit  it,  as  now,  out  of 
sheer  desperation." 

If  I  had  at  first  been  mystified  with  this  curious 
being,  I  was  by  this  time  thoroughly  bewildered. 
The  more  I  studied  him  the  more  at  a  loss  I  was 
to  fathom  him ;  and  as  I  stood  staring  blankly  in 
his  face,  he  exclaimed  almost  derisively:  "You 
give  it  up,  don't  you  ?" 

58 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

I  nodded. 

"Well,"  he  continued,  "that's  a  good  sign,  and 
I've  concluded  to  'unbosom': — I'm  an  adjustable 
lunatic." 

"An  'adjustable  lunatic'!"  I  repeated,  blankly. 
And  after  the  remarkable  proposition  that  ushers 
in  the  story,  he  continued  smilingly: 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  now,  for  I'm  glad  to  assure 
you  of  the  fact  that  I'm  as  harmless  as  a  baby- 
butterfly.  Nobody  knows  I'm  crazy,  nobody  ever 
dreams  of  such  a  thing — and  why? — Because  the 
faculty  is  adjustable,  don't  you  see,  and  self-con 
trolling.  I  never  allow  it  to  interfere  with  busi 
ness  matters,  and  only  let  it  on  at  leisure  intervals 
for  the  amusement  it  affords  me  in  the  pleasurable 
break  it  makes  in  the  monotony  of  a  matter-of- 
fact  existence.  I'm  off  duty  to-day — in  fact,  I've 
been  off  duty  for  a  week ;  or,  to  be  franker  still,  I 
lost  my  situation  ten  days  ago,  and  I've  been  hu 
moring  this  propensity  in  the  meanwhile ;  and  now, 
if  you're  inclined  to  go  up  to  my  room  with  me — 
the  windows  are  both  raised,  you  see,  and  you  can 
call  for  help  should  occasion  require ;  people  are 
constantly  passing — if  you  feel  inclined,  I  say,  to 
go  up  with  me,  I'll  do  my  best  to  entertain  you.  I 
like  you,  as  I  said  before,  and  you  can  trust  me,  I 
assure  you.  Come." 

If  I  were  to  attempt  a   description  of  the  feel- 

59 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

ings  that  possessed  me  as  I  followed  my  strange 
acquaintance  up  the  stairway,  I  should  fail  as  ut 
terly  as  one  who  would  attempt  to  portray  the  ex 
perience  of  lying  in  a  nine-days'  trance,  so  I  leave 
the  reader's  fancy  to  befriend  me,  and  hasten  on 
to  more  tangible  matters. 

We  paused  at  the  first  landing,  my  companion 
unlocking  a  door  on  the  right,  and  handing  me  the 
key  with  the  remark:  "You  may  feel  safer  with 
it.  And  don't  be  frightened,"  he  continued, 
"when  I  open  the  door,  for  it  always  whines  like 
somebody  had  stepped  on  its  knob,"  and  I  laughed 
at  the  odd  figure  as  he  threw  the  door  open  and 
motioned  me  to  enter. 

It  was  a  queer  apartment,  filled  with  a  jumbled 
array  of  old  chairs  and  stands;  old  trunks,  a 
lounge,  and  a  stack  of  odd-shaped  packages.  A 
frowzy  carpet  thrown  over  the  floor  like  a  blanket, 
and  a  candle-box  spittoon  with  a  broken  lamp- 
chimney  in  it.  A  little  swinging  shelf  of  dusty 
books,  with  a  railroad  map  pasted  just  above  it. 
A  narrow  table  with  a  telegraph  instrument  at 
tached,  and  wires  like  ivy-vines  running  all  about 
the  walls;  and  scattered  around  the  instrument 
was  an  endless  array  of  zinc  and  copper  scraps, 
and  bits  of  brass,  spiral  springs,  and  queer-shaped 
little  tools.  A  flute  propped  up  one  window,  and 
near  it,  on  another  stand,  a  cornet  and  an  old 
60 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

guitar;  a  pencil  sketch  half  finished,  and  a  stuffed 
glove  with  a  pencil  in  its  fingers  lying  on  it ;  a 
spirit-lamp,  a  lump  of  beeswax,  and  a  hundred 
other  odds  and  ends,  betokening  the  presence  of 
some  mechanical,  musical,  scientific  genius. 

"It's  a  bachelor's  room,"  said  the  host,  noting 
my  inquisitive  air. — "It's  a  bachelor's  room,  so 
you'll  expect  no  apologies.  Sit  down  when  you're 
through  with  the  industrial,  and  turn  your  atten 
tion  to  the  art  department." 

I  followed  the  direction  of  his  hand,  and  my 
eyes  fell  upon  a  painted  face  of  such  ineffable 
sweetness  and  beauty  I  was  fairly  dazed.  It  was 
not  an  earthly  form,  at  least  in  coloring,  for  the 
features  seemed  to  glow  with  beatific  light.  The 
eyes  were  large,  dark,  and  dewy,  thrown  upward 
with  a  longing  look,  and  filled  with  such  intensity 
of  tenderness  one  could  but  sigh  to  see  them.  The 
hair,  swept  negligently  back,  fell  down  the  gleam 
ing  shoulders  like  a  silken  robe,  and  nestled  in  its 
glossy  waves  the  ears  peeped  shyly  out  like  lily- 
blooms.  The  lips  were  parted  with  an  utterance 
that  one  could  almost  hear,  and  weep  because  the 
blessed  voice  was  mute.  The  hands  were  folded 
on  a  crumpled  letter  and  pressed  close  against  the 
heart,  and  a  curl  of  golden  hair  was  coiled  around 
the  fingers. 

"Is  it  a  creation  of  the  fancy?"  I  asked. 
61 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

"Well,  yes,"  he  answered,  with  a  dreamy 
drawl.  "I  call  it  fancy,  when  in  a  normal  state; 
but  now,"  he  continued,  in  a  fainter  tone,  "I  will 
designate  it  as  a  portrait."  And  oh,  so  sad,  so 
hopeless  and  despairing  was  the  utterance,  it  seemed 
to  well  up  from  the  fountain  of  his  heart  like  a 
spray  of  purest  sorrow. 

"Who  painted  it?"  I  asked. 

"  'Who  painted  it?'  "  he  repeated,  drowsily — 
" 'who  painted  it?'  Oh,  no;  I  mustn't  tell  you 
that;  for  if  I  answered  you  with  'Raphael,'  you'd 
say,  'Ah,  no!  the  paint's  too  fresh  for  that,  and 
he's  been  dead  for  ages.'  'Who  painted  it?'  No, 
no,  I  mustn't  tell  you  that!" 

"But  are  you  not  an  artist? — I  see  an  easel  in 
the  corner  there,  and  here's  a  maulstick  lying  on 
the  mantel." 

"I  an  artist?  Why,  man,  what  ails  you?  I 
told  you  not  ten  minutes  since  that  I  was  an  ad 
justable  lunatic;  and  don't  you  see  I  am? — You 
can't  mislead  me  nor  throw  me  off  my  guard. 
When  it  comes  to  reason  or  solid  logic,  don't  you 
find  me  there  ?  And  here  again,  to  show  the  clear 
ness  of  my  judgment,  I  remove  the  cause  of  our 
little  dissension,  and  our  friendly  equanimity  is 
restored — "  and  he  turned  the  picture  to  the  wall. 

I  could  but  smile  at  the  gravity  and  adroitness 
of  his  language  and  demeanor. 
62 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

"There,"  said  he,  smiling  in  return ;  "your  face 
is  brighter  than  the  day  outside;  let's  change  the 
topic.  Do  you  like  music?" 

"Passionately,"  I  responded.  " Will  you  play  ?" 

"No;   I  will  sing." 

He  took  the  guitar  from  the  table,  and,  with  a 
prelude  wilder  than  the  "Witches'  Dance,"  he 
sang  a  song  he  called  "The  Dream  of  Death," 
a  grievously  sad  song,  so  full  of  minor  tones  and 
wailing  words,  the  burden  of  it  still  lingers  in  my 
ears: 

"O  gentle  death,  bow  down  and  sip 
The  soul  that  lingers  on  my  lip; 
O  gentle  death,  bow  down  and  keep 
Eternal  vigil  o'er  my  sleep; 
For  I  am  weary  and  would  rest 
Forever  on  your  loving  breast." 

His  voice,  as  plaintive  as  a  dove's,  went  trailing 
through  the  rondel  like  weariness  itself ;  and  when 
at  last  it  died  away  in  one  long  quaver  of  ecstatic 
melody,  though  I  felt  within  my  heart  an  echoing 
of  grief 

"Too  sweetly  sad  to  name  as  pain," 

I  broke  the  silence  following  to  remind  him  of  his 
having  told  me  he  was  not  a  musician. 

"Only  a  novice,"  he  responded. — "One  may 
twang  a  lute  and  yet  not  be  a  troubadour.  By  the 

63 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

way,"  he  broke  off  abruptly,  "is  that  expression 
original  with  me,  or  have  I  picked  it  up  in  some 
old  book  of  rhyme? — Oh,  yes!  How  do  you 
like  poetry?" 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  as  he  spoke,  and  without 
awaiting  an  answer  to  his  query  went  diving  about 
in  a  huge  waste-basket  standing  near  the  table. 

"It's  a  thing  I  dislike  to  acknowledge,"  he  went 
on,  "but  I  don't  mind  telling  you.  The  fact  is, 
I'm  a  follower  of  Wegg  and  sometimes  'drop  into 
poetry — as  a  friend,'  you  understand ;  and  if  you'll 
'lend  me  your  ears,'  I'll  give  you  a  specimen  of 
my  versification." 

He  had  drawn  up  a  roll  of  paper  from  the 
debris  of  the  basket,  and  unrolling  it  with  a 
flourish,  and  a  mock-heroic  air  of  inspiration,  he 
read  as  follows : 

"A  fantasy  that  came  to  me 

As  wild  and  wantonly  designed 

As  ever  any  dream  might  be 

Unraveled  from  a  madman's  mind, — 

A  tangle-work  of  tissue,  wrought 
By  cunning  of  the  spider-brain, 
And  woven,  in  an  hour  of  pain, 

To  trap  the  giddy  flies  of  thought ." 

He  paused,  and  with  a  look  of  almost  wild  en 
treaty  he  pleaded:  "You  understand  it,  don't 
you?" 

64 


AN   ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC 

I  nodded  hesitatingly. 

"Why  certainly  you  do.  The  meaning's  the 
plainest  thing  in  it.  What's  your  idea  of  its 
meaning?  tell  me! — Why  don't  you  tell  me!" 

"Read  it  again  that  I  may  note  it  carefully." 

He  repeated  it. 

"Why,"  said  I,  "it  appears  to  me  to  be  the  in 
troduction  to  a  poem  written  under  peculiar  cir 
cumstances,  and  containing,  perhaps,  some  strange 
ideas  that  the  author  would  excuse  for  the  reason 
of  their  coming  in  the  way  they  did." 

"Right!"  he  exclaimed,  joyously;  "and  now  if 
you'll  give  me  your  most  critical  attention,  and 
promise  not  to  interrupt,  I'll  read  the  poem  entire." 

"Go  on,"  I  said,  for  I  was  far  more  eager  to 
listen  than  I  would  have  him  know. 

"And  will  you  excuse  any  little  wildness  of 
gesture  or  expression  that  I  may  see  fit  to  introduce 
in  the  rendition?" 

"Certainly,"  said  I,  "certainly;  go  on!" 

"And  you  won't  interrupt  or  get  excited  ?  Light 
another  cigar;  and  here's  a  chair  to  throw  your 
feet  across.  Now,  unbutton  your  coat  and  lean 
back.  Are  you  thoroughly  comfortable  ?" 

"Thoroughly,"  said  I,  impatiently — "a  thou 
sand  thoroughlies." 

"All  right,"  he  said;  "I'm  glad  to  hear  you 
say  it ;  but  before  I  proceed  I  desire  to  call  your 

65 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

attention  to  the  fact  that  this  poem  is  a  literary 
orphan — a  foundling,  you  understand?" 

"I  understand;   go  on." 

And  with  a  manner  all  too  wild  to  be  described, 
he  read,  or  rather  recited,  the  following  monstrosity 
of  rhyme: 

"  I  stood  beneath  a  summer  moon 

All  swollen  to  uncanny  girth, 
And  hanging,  like  the  sun  at  noon, 

Above  the  centre  of  the  earth; 

But  with  a  sad  and  sallow  light, 

As  it  had  sickened  of  the  night 
And  fallen  in  a  pallid  swoon. 
Around  me  I  could  hear  the  rush 

Of  sullen  winds,  and  feel  the  whirr 
Of  unseen  wings  apast  me  brush 

Like  phantoms  round  a  sepulchre; 
And,  like  a  carpeting  of  plush, 

A  lawn  unrolled  beneath  my  feet, 

Bespangled  o'er  with  flowers  as  sweet 

To  look  upon  as  those  that  nod 

Within  the  garden-fields  of  God, 

But  odorless  as  those  that  blow 

In  ashes  in  the  shades  below. 


"  And  on  my  hearing  fell  a  storm 
Of  gusty  music,  sadder  yet 
Than  every  whimper  of  regret 
That  sobbing  utterance  could  form, 

And  patched  with  scraps  of  sound  that  seemed 
Torn  out  of  tunes  that  demons  dreamed, 

66 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

And  pitched  to  such  a  piercing  key, 
It  stabbed  the  ear  with  agony, 
And  when  at  last  it  lulled  and  died, 
I  stood  aghast  and  terrified. 

I  shuddered  and  I  shut  my  eyes, 
And  still  could  see,  and  feel  aware 
Some  mystic  presence  waited  there; 

And  staring,  with  a  dazed  surprise, 
I  saw  a  creature  so  divine 
That  never  subtle  thought  of  mine 
May  reproduce  to  inner  sight 
So  fair  a  vision  of  delight. 

"  A  syllable  of  dew  that  drips 
From  out  a  lily's  laughing  lips 
Could  not  be  sweeter  than  the  word 
I  listened  to,  yet  never  heard. — 
For,  oh,  the  woman  hiding  there 
Within  the  shadows  of  her  hair, 
Spake  to  me  in  an  undertone 
So  delicate,  my  soul  alone 
But  understood  it  as  a  moan 
Of  some  weak  melody  of  wind 
A  heavenward  breeze  had  left  behind. 

"  A  tracery  of  trees,  grotesque 

Against  the  sky,  behind  her  seen, 

Like  shapeless  shapes  of  arabesque 
Wrought  in  an  Oriental  screen; 

And  tall,  austere  and  statuesque 

She  loomed  before  it — e'en  as  though 
The  spirit-hand  of  Angelo 
Had  chiselled  her  to  life  complete, 
With  chips  of  moonshine  round  her  feet. 

67 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

And  I  grew  jealous  of  the  dusk, 
To  see  it  softly  touch  her  face, 
As  lover-like,  with  fond  embrace, 

It  folded  round  her  like  a  husk: 

But  when  the  glitter  of  her  hand, 
Like  wasted  glory,  beckoned  me, 
My  eyes  grew  blurred  and  dull  and  dim- 
My  vision  failed — I  could  not  see — 

I  could  not  stir — I  could  but  stand, 
Till,  quivering  in  every  limb, 
I  flung  me  prone,  as  though  to  swim 
The  tide  of  grass  whose  waves  of  green 
Went  rolling  ocean-wide  between 
My  helpless  shipwrecked  heart  and  her 
Who  claimed  me  for  a  worshipper. 

"  And  writhing  thus  in  my  despair, 
I  heard  a  weird,  unearthly  sound, 
That  seemed  to  lift  me  from  the  ground 
And  hold  me  floating  in  the  air. 
I  looked,  and  lo!  I  saw  her  bow 

Above  a  harp  within  her  hands; 
A  crown  of  blossoms  bound  her  brow, 

And  on  her  harp  were  twisted  strands 
Of  silken  starlight,  rippling  o'er 
With  music  never  heard  before 
By  mortal  ears;  and,  at  the  strain, 
I  felt  my  Spirit  snap  its  chain 
And  break  away, — and  I  could  see 
It  as  it  turned  and  fled  from  me 
To  greet  its  mistress,  where  she  smiled 
To  see  the  phantom  dancing  wild 
And  wizard-like  before  the  spell 
Her  mystic  fingers  knew  so  well." 
68 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

I  sat  throughout  it  all  as  though  under  the 
strange  influence  of  an  Eastern  drug.  My  fancy 
was  so  wrought  upon  I  only  saw  the  reader  mistily, 
and  clothed,  as  it  were,  in  a  bedragoned  costume 
of  the  Orient.  My  mind  seemed  idle — steeped  in 
drowse  and  languor,  and  yet  peopled  with  a  thou 
sand  shadowy  fancies  that  came  trooping  from 
chaotic  hiding-places,  and  mingling  in  a  revelry  of 
such  riotous  extravagance  it  seemed  a  holiday  of 
elfish  thought. 

I  shook  my  head,  I  rubbed  my  eyes,  arose  be 
wildered,  and  sat  down  again;  arose  again  and 
walked  across  the  room,  my  strange  companion 
following  every  motion  with  an  intensity  of  gaze 
almost  mesmeric. 

"You  fail  to  comprehend  it?"  he  queried. 

I  shook  my  head. 

"You  can  almost  grasp  it,  can't  you?" 

"Yes,"  I  answered. 

"But  not  quite?" 

"Not  quite." 

"Does  it  worry  you?" 

"Yes." 

"Think  it  will  cling  to  you,  and  fret  you,  vex 
you,  haunt  you?" 

"I  know  it  will." 

"Think  you'll  ever  fully  comprehed  it?" 

"I  can't  say,"  I  replied,  thoughtfully. — "Per- 
69 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

haps  I  may  in  time.  Will  you  allow  me  to 
copy  it?" 

"What  do  you  want  with  it?" 

"I  want  to  study  it,"  I  replied. 

"And  you're  sure  you  don't  understand  it,  and 
it  worries  you,  and  frets  you,  and  vexes  you,  and 
haunts  you  ?  Good  !  I'll  read  you  the  final  clause 
now;  that  may  throw  a  light  of  some  kind  on  if," 
and,  opening  the  scroll,  again  he  read: 

"  What  is  it?     Who  will  rightly  guess 

If  it  be  ought  but  nothingness 

That  dribbles  from  a  wayward  pen 

To  spatter  in  the  eyes  of  men? 

What  matter!     I  will  call  it  mine, 
And  I  will  take  the  changeling  home 

And  bathe  its  face  with  morning-shine, 
And  comb  it  with  a  golden  comb 
Till  every  tangled  tress  of  rhyme 
Will  fairer  be  than  summer-time: 

And  I  will  nurse  it  on  my  knee, 
And  dandle  it  beyond  the  clasp 
Of  hands  that  grip  and  hands  that  grasp, 

Through  life  and  all  eternity!" 

"Now  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  he  asked  with 
a  savageness  that  startled  me. 

"I  am  more  at  sea  than  ever,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  I  wish  you  a  prosperous  voyage !  Here's 
the  poem ;  I've  another  copy.  'Read  and  reflect,' 
70 


AN    ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

as  the  railroad  poster  says,  but  don't  you  publish 
it — at  least  while  I'm  alive,  for  I've  no  thirst  for 
literary  fame — I  only  write  for  home-use;  but 
you're  a  good  fellow,  and  I  like  you  for  all  your 
weak  points,  and  I  trust  the  confidence  I  repose 
will  not  be  disregarded.  Come!" 

He  had  opened  the  door  and  was  holding  out 
his  hand  for  the  key. 

I  gave  it  to  him  and  followed  out  mechanically. 
He  left  the  door  ajar  and  followed  to  the  bottom 
of  the  stairs. 

"And  now  if  you'll  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "I'll 
say  good-bye  to  you  here ;  I've  some  packing  to 
do  and  ought  to  be  at  it." 

"Why,  you're  not  going  to  leave  the  city?"  I 
asked. 

"Well,  no,  not  to-day;  but  the  jig's  up  with 
me  here,  and  it's  only  a  question  of  time — I  can't 
hold  out  much  longer — as  our  rural  friend  re 
marks,  'Money  matters  is  mighty  sceerce' ;  and 
if  I  don't  pull  out  shortly  I'll  have  to  'fold  my 
tent  like  the  Bedouin  and  silently  plagiarize 
away!'" 

"If  I  could  be  of  any  assistance  to  you — "  I 
began,  but  he  checked  me  abruptly  with,  "Oh, 
no,  I  don't  require  it,  I  assure  you ;  I've  two  dol 
lars  to  your  one,  doubtless.  Thank  you  just  the 
same,  and  good-bye.  Here's  my  card;  it's  not 

71 


AN   ADJUSTABLE    LUNATIC 

my  name,  however,  but  it'll  answer;  I'll  not  see 
you  again,  though  you  should  live  to  be  as  bald  as 
a  brickyard,  for,  my  dear  young  friend,  I'm  going 
away.  Good-bye,  and  may  all  good  things  over 
take  you!" 

He  gripped  my  hand  like  a  vice,  and  turning 
quickly,  went  skipping  up  the  stairway  two  steps 
at  a  time. 

"Good-bye ! "  I  called  to  him,  sorrowfully ;  then 
turned  reluctantly  away,  examining  the  card  he 
had  given  me,  which,  to  my  astonishment,  was 
not  his  card  at  all,  but  a  railroad  ticket  entitling 
the  bearer  to  a  ride  from  Danville,  Illinois,  to 
York,  Pennsylvania;  this  fact  I  remember  quite 
distinctly,  as  I  read  it  over  and  over,  revolving  in 
my  mind  the  impression  that  this  was  but  another 
instance  of  his  eccentricity,  or  perhaps  a  trick  by 
which  I  might  be  victimized  in  some  undreamed 
of  way.  But  upon  second  thought  I  concluded  it 
to  be  simply  a  mistake,  and  so  turned  back  and 
called  him  to  the  window  above  and  explained. 

He  came  down  and  begged  my  pardon  for  the 
trouble  he  had  given  me,  took  the  ticket,  thanked 
me,  and  said  good-bye  again. 

"But,"  said  I,  "you  haven't  given  me  your  real 
card  in  exchange." 

"Oh,  no  matter!"  he  said  smilingly.  "Call 
me  Smith,  Jones,  or  Robinson,  it's  all  the  same; 
72 


AN  ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC 

good-bye,  and  don't  forget  your  old  friend  and 
well-wisher,  the  Adjustable  Lunatic."  And  even 
thus  he  vanished  from  sight  forever. 

The  remainder  of  the  day  and  half  of  the  night 
I  spent  in  studious  contemplation  of  the  curious 
composition,  but  without  arriving  at  any  tangible 
conclusion.  I  am  still  engaged  with  my  investiga 
tion.  Sometimes  the  meaning  seems  almost  within 
my  mental  grasp ;  but,  balancing,  adjusting,  and 
comparing  its  many  curious  bearings  I  find  my  judg 
ment  persistently  at  fault.  It  has  puzzled  and 
bewildered  me  for  weeks.  No  line  of  it  but  can 
ters  through  my  brain  like  a  fractious  nightmare ; 
no  syllable  but  fastens  on  my  fancy  like  a  leech, 
and  sucks  away  the  life-blood  of  my  every  thought. 
I  am  troubled, worried,  fretted,  vexed,  and  haunted ; 
and  I  write  this  now  in  the  earnest  hope  that  wiser 
minds  may  have  an  opportunity  of  making  it  a 
subject  of  investigation,  and  because  one  week 
ago  to-day  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  following  spe 
cial  telegram  to  the  Indianapolis  "Journal": 

PERU,  IND.,  April  12. — An  unknown  man  committed 
suicide  in  the  eastward-bound  train  on  the  Wabash  road, 
just  below  Waverly,  at  about  n  o'clock  this  morning.  He 
had  in  his  possession,  besides  the  revolver  with  which  he 
shot  himself,  a  ticket  from  Danville,  Illinois,  to  York, 
Pennsylvania,  a  gold  watch,  $19  in  money,  a  small  valise, 
and  some  letters  and  other  papers  which  indicated  his 
name  to  be  George  S.  Cloning. 

73 


AN  ADJUSTABLE   LUNATIC 

He  was  shot  twice  in  the  region  of  the  heart,  and  his 
revolver  showed  that  between  the  first  and  last  shots  two 
cartridges  missed  fire. 


74 


TOD 


TOD 

STODDARD  ANDERSON  was  the  boy's  name, 
though  had  you  made  inquiry  for  Stoddard  Ander 
son  of  any  boy  of  the  town  in  which  he  lived — 
and  I  myself  lived  there,  a  handy  boy  in  the  dim 
old  days — you  doubtless  would  have  been  informed 
that  nobody  of  that  name  was  there.  Your  juve 
nile  informant,  however,  by  way  of  gratuitous  in 
telligence,  might  have  gone  on  to  state  that  two 
families  of  the  name  of  Anderson  resided  there, — 
"Old  Do-good"  Anderson,  the  preacher,  and  his 
brother  John.  But  had  you  asked  for  "Tod" 
Anderson,  or  simply  "Tod,"  your  boy  would  have 
known  Tod ;  your  boy,  in  all  likelihood,  would 
have  had  especial  reasons  for  remembering  Tod, 
although  his  modesty,  perhaps,  might  not  allow 
him  to  inform  you  how  Tod  had  "waxed  it  to  him 
more'n  onc't"  !  But  he  would  have  told  you,  as 
I  tell  you  now,  that  Tod  Anderson  was  the  preach 
er's  boy,  and  lived  at  the  parsonage.  Tod  was  a 
queer  boy. 

Stoddard  Anderson  was  named  in  honor  of 
some  obscure  divine  his  father  had  joined  church 

77 


TOD 


under  when  a  boy.  It  was  a  peculiar  weakness 
of  the  father  to  relate  the  experience  of  his  early 
conviction  ;  and  as  he  never  tired  of  repeating  it, 
by  way  of  precept  and  admonition  to  the  way 
ward  lambkins  of  his  flock,  Tod  mastered  its 
most  intricate  and  sacred  phraseology,  together 
even  with  the  father's  more  religious  formulas,  to 
a  degree  of  perfection  that  enabled  him  to  preside 
at  mock  meetings  in  the  hayloft,  and  offer  the 
baptismal  service  at  the  "swimmin'-hole." 

In  point  of  personal  or  moral  resemblance,  Tod 
was  in  no  wise  like  his  father.  Some  said  he 
was  the  picture  of  his  mother,  they  who  could 
remember  her,  for  she  fell  asleep  when  Tod  was 
three  days  old,  with  her  mother-arms  locked 
around  him  so  closely  that  he  cried,  and  they  had 
to  take  him  away  from  her.  No. — Death  had 
taken  her  away  from  him. 

It  needs  now  no  chronicle  to  tell  how  Tod  thrived 
in  spite  of  his  great  loss,  and  how  he  grew  to  be  a 
big,  fat,  two-fisted  baby  with  a  double  chin,  the 
pride  and  constant  worry  of  the  dear  old  grand 
mother  into  whose  care  he  had  fallen.  It  requires 
no  space  in  history's  crowded  page  to  tell  how  he 
could  stand  up  by  a  chair  when  eight  months  old, 
and  crow  and  laugh  and  doddle  his  little  chubby 
arms  till  he  quite  upset  his  balance,  and,  pulling 
the  chair  down  with  him,  would  laugh  and  crow 
78 


TOD 


louder  than  ever,  and  kick,  and  crawl,  and  sprawl, 
and  jabber;  and  never  lift  a  whimper  of  distress 
but  when  being  rocked  to  sleep.  Let  a  babyhood 
of  usual  interest  be  inferred — then  add  a  few 
more  years,  and  you  will  have  the  Tod  of  ten  I 
knew. 

O  moral,  saintlike,  and  consistent  Christian, 
what  is  it  in  the  souls  of  little  children  so  antagon 
istic  to  your  own  sometimes?  What  is  it  in  their 
wayward  and  impulsive  natures  that  you  cannot 
brook?  And  what  strange  tincture  of  rebellious 
feeling  is  it  that  embitters  all  the  tenderness  and 
love  you  pour  out  so  lavishly  upon  their  stubborn 
and  resentful  hearts  ?  Why  is  it  you  so  covetously 
cherish  the  command  divine,  "Children,  obey  your 
parents,"  and  yet  find  no  warm  nook  within  the 
breast  for  that  old  houseless  truth  that  goes  wail 
ing  through  the  world : 

"A  boy's  will  is  the  wind's  will, 
And  the  thoughts  of  youth  are  long,  long  thoughts"? 

Tod  went  to  school — the  thriftless  Tod ! — not 
wholly  thriftless,  either;  for,  although  he  had  not 
that  apt  way  of  skimming  like  a  swallow  down  the 
placid  rills  of  learning,  he  did  possess,  in  some 
mysterious  strength,  a  most  extraordinary  knack 
of  acquiring  just  such  information  as  was  not 
taught  at  school,  and  had  no  place  within  the  busy 
hive  of  knowledge. 

79 


TOD 

Tod  was  a  failure  in  arithmetic.  Tod  couldn't 
tell  twice  ten  from  twice  eternity.  Tod  knew  ab 
solutely  nothing  of  either  Christopher  Columbus 
or  the  glorious  country  he  discovered  expressly  for 
the  use  of  industry  and  learning,  as  the  teacher 
would  have  had  him  implicitly  believe.  Tod 
couldn't  tell  you  anything  of  John  Smith,  even, 
that  very  noted  captain  who  walks  cheek  by  jowl 
with  the  dusky  Pocahontas  across  the  illimitable 
fancy  of  the  ten-year-old  school-boy  of  our  glori 
ous  republic.  Tod  knew  all  about  the  famous 
Captain  Kidd,  however.  In  fact,  Tod  could  sing 
his  history  with  more  lively  interest  and  real  ap 
preciation  than  his  fellow-schoolmates  sang  geog 
raphy.  The  simple  Tod  once  joined  the  geo 
graphical  chorus  with : 

"  I'd  a  Bible  in  my  handv 

As  I  sailed,  as  I  sailed, 
And  I  sunk  her  in  the  sand, 
As  I  sailed." 

And  Tod — not  Captain  Kidd — had  a  ringing  in 
his  ears  as  he  sang,  as  he  sang,  and  an  overflow 
of  tears  as  he  sang.  And  then  he  ran  away  from 
school  that  afternoon,  and  sang  Captain  Kidd, 
from  A  to  izzard,  in  the  full  hearing  of  the  "In 
dustrial  Hive,"  to  the  very  evident  amusement  of 
"the  workers,"  and  the  discomfiture  of  the  ruler 
of  "the  swarm." 

80 


TOD 


The  teacher  called  on  the  good  minister  that 
evening,  and  after  a  long  talk  on  the  back  porch, 
left  late  in  the  dusk,  wiping  his  eyes  with  one 
hand,  and  shaking  the  other  very  warmly  with  the 
preacher.  And  Tod  slipped  noiselessly  along  the 
roof  above  them,  and  slid  down  the  other  side, 
and  watched  the  teacher's  departure  with  a  puz 
zled  face. 

Tod  was  at  school  next  morning  long  before  the 
call  of  "Books" ;  in  fact,  so  early,  that  he  availed 
himself  of  his  isolated  situation  to  chalk  the  handle 
of  the  teacher's  pointer,  to  bore  a  gimlet-hole  in 
the  water-bucket,  to  slip  a  chip  under  one  corner 
of  the  clock  in  order  to  tilt  it  out  of  balance  and 
time,  and  in  many  more  ingenious  ways  to  con 
tribute  to  the  coming  troubles  of  the  day.  The 
most  audacious  act,  however,  was  to  climb  above 
the  teacher's  desk  and  paste  a  paper  scrap  over  a 
letter  "o"  in  the  old  motto,  "Be  good,"  that  had 
offered  him  its  vain  advice  for  years.  As  one  by 
one  these  depredations  met  the  teacher's  notice 
through  the  day,  the  culprit  braced  himself  for 
some  disastrous  issue,  but  his  only  punishment 
was  the  assured  glance  the  teacher  always  gave 
him,  and  the  settled  yet  forbearing  look  of  pain 
upon  his  face.  In  sheer  daring  Tod  laughed 
aloud — a  hollow,  hungry  laugh  that  had  no  mirth 
in  it — but  as  suddenly  subsided  in  a  close  investi- 
81 


TOD 


gation  of  a  problem  in  mental  arithmetic,  when 
the  teacher  backed  slowly  toward  his  desk  and 
stood  covertly  awaiting  further  developments.  But 
he  was  left  again  to  his  own  inclinations,  after 
having,  with  a  brazen  air  of  innocence,  solicited 
and  gained  the  master's  assistance  in  the  solution 
of  a  very  knotty  problem,  which  it  is  needless  to 
say  he  knew  no  more  of  than  before.  Throughout 
the  remainder  of  the  day  Tod  was  thoughtful,  and 
was  evidently  evolving  in  his  mind  a  problem  far 
more  serious  than  could  be  found  in  books.  Of 
his  own  accord,  that  evening  at  the  close  of  school, 
he  stayed  in  for  some  mysterious  reason  that  even 
his  own  deskmate  could  not  comprehend.  When, 
an  hour  later,  this  latter  worthy,  from  the  old  barn 
opposite,  watched  Tod  and  the  teacher  hand  in 
hand  come  slowly  down  the  walk,  he  whispered 
to  himself  with  bated  breath:  "What's  the  durn 
fool  up  to,  anyhow?" 

From  that  time  Tod  grew  to  be  a  deeper  mys 
tery  than  he  could  fathom,  inasmuch  as  some 
strange  spirit  of  industry  fell  upon  him,  and  he 
became  a  student. 

Though  a  perverse  fate  had  seemingly  decreed 
that  Tod  should  remain  a  failure  in  all  branches 
wherein  most  school-boys  readily  succeed,  he 
rapidly  advanced  in  reading ;  and  in  the  declama- 


82 


TOD 


tory  art  he  soon  acquired  a  fame  that  placed  him 
high  above  the  reach  of  competitors. 

Tod  never  cried  when  he  got  up  to  "speak." 
Tod  never  blanched,  looked  silly,  and  hung  down 
his  head.  Tod  never  mumbled  in  an  undertone, 
was  never  at  a  loss  to  use  his  hands,  nor  ever  had 
"his  piece"  so  poorly  memorized  that  he  must 
hesitate  with  awkward  repetitions,  to  sit  down  at 
last  in  wordless  misery  among  the  unfeeling  and 
derisive  plaudits  of  the  school.  Tod,  in  a  word, 
knew  no  such  word  as  fail  when  his  turn  was 
called  to  entertain  his  hearers  either  with  the  gal 
lant  story  of  the  youthful  "Casabianca,"  "The 
Speech  of  Logan,"  or  "Catiline's  Defiance." 
Let  a  scholar  be  in  training  for  the  old-time  exer 
cises  of  Friday  afternoon,  and  he  was  told  to 
speak  out  clear  and  full — not  hang  his  head — not 
let  his  arms  hang  down  like  empty  sleeves, — but 
to  stand  up  like  a  king,  look  everybody  in  the 
face,  as  though  he  were  doing  something  to  be 
proud  of — in  short,  to  take  Tod  for  his  model,  and 
"speak  out  like  a  man" ! 

When  Tod  failed  to  make  his  appearance  with 
his  usual  promptness  one  Friday  afternoon,  and 
the  last  day  of  the  term,  there  was  evidence  of 
general  disappointment.  Tod  was  to  deliver  an 
oration  written  especially  for  that  occasion  by  the 
teacher.  The  visitors  were  all  there — the  school 

83 


TOD 


committee,  and  the  minister,  Tod's  father,  who 
occupied  Tod's  desk  alone  when  "Books"  was 
called.  The  teacher,  with  his  pallid,  care-worn 
face,  tiptoed  up  and  down  the  aisles,  bending  oc 
casionally  to  ask  a  whispered  question,  and  to  let 
the  look  of  anxious  wonder  deepen  on  his  face  as 
the  respectful  pupils  shook  their  heads  in  silent  re 
sponse.  But  upon  a  whispered  colloquy  with  the 
minister,  his  face  brightened,  as  he  learned  that 
"Tod  was  practising  his  oration  in  the  wood-house 
half  an  hour  before  the  ringing  of  the  bell." 

A  boy  was  sent  to  bring  him,  but  returned  alone, 
to  say  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  any  trace 
of  him. 

"Oh,  he'll  be  here  in  time  enough,"  said  the 
teacher  apologetically  to  the  sad-faced  minister. — 
"He's  deeply  interested  in  his  effort  for  this  after 
noon,  and  I'm  certain  he  wouldn't  purposely  dis 
appoint  me."  The  good  man  in  reply  shook  his 
head  resignedly,  with  a  prayerful  flight  of  the  eyes 
indicative  of  long-suffering  and  forbearance. 

The  opening  services  of  singing  and  prayer. 
No  Tod. 

First  class  in  arithmetic  called — examined.  No 
Tod. 

Second  class,  ditto  ;  still  no  Tod.  Primary  class 
in  ditto,  composed  of  little  twin  sisters,  aged  six, 
with  very  red  hair  and  very  fair  skin,  and  very 
84 


TOD 


short  dresses  and  very  slim  legs.     Tod  failed  to 
join  his  class. 

The  long-suffering  minister  was  ill  at  ease.  The 
exercise  failed  in  some  way  to  appease  the  hunger 
of  the  soul  within.  He  looked  out  of  the  open 
window  nervously,  and  watched  a  saucy  little  sap- 
sucker  hopping  up  and  down  a  tree;  first  up  one 
side  and  then  down  the  other,  suddenly  disappear 
ing  near  the  roots,  and  as  suddenly  surprising  him 
with  a  mischievous  pecking  near  the  top  fork.  He 
thought  of  his  poor,  wayward  boy,  with  a  vague, 
vague  hope  that  he  might  yet,  in  some  wise  ruling 
of  a  gracious  Providence,  escape  the  gallows,  and 
with  a  deep  sigh  turned  to  the  noisy  quiet  of  the 
school-room ;  he  did  not  even  smile  as  he  took  up 
Tod's  geography,  opened  at  the  boy's  latest  work, 
— a  picture  of  the  State  seal,  where  a  stalwart 
pioneer  in  his  shirt-sleeves  hacked  away  at  a 
gnarled  and  stubborn-looking  tree,  without  deign 
ing  to  notice  a  stampeding  herd  of  buffalo  that 
dashed  by  in  most  alarming  proximity.  The  non 
chalance  of  the  sturdy  yeoman  was  intensified  by 
Tod's  graphic  pen,  which  had  mounted  each 
plunging  monster  with  a  daring  rider,  holding  a 
slack  bridle-rein  in  one  hand,  and  with  the  other 
swinging  a  plug-hat  in  the  most  exultant  and  defi 
ant  manner.  This  piece  of  grotesque  art  and 
others  equally  suggestive  of  the  outcropping  genius 

85 


TOD 


of  their  author,  were  put  wearily  aside,  only  serv 
ing,  as  it  seemed,  to  deepen  rather  than  dissolve 
the  gloom  enshrouding  the  good  father's  face. 
And  so  the  exercises  wore  along  till  recess  came, 
and  with  it  came  the  missing  Tod. 

"I'm  in  time,  am  I?  Goody!"  shouted  Tod, 
jumping  over  a  small  boy  who  had  stooped  to 
pick  up  a  slate-pencil,  and  stopping  abruptly  in 
front  of  the  teacher's  desk. 

"Why,  Tod;   what  in  the  world!" 

Tod's  features  wore  a  proud,  exultant  smile, 
though  somewhat  glamoured  with  a  network  of 
spiteful-looking  scratches ;  and  his  eyes  were  more 
than  usually  bright,  although  their  lids  were  blue, 
and  swollen  to  a  size  that  half  concealed  them. 
His  head,  held  jauntily  erect,  suggested  nothing 
but  boyish  spirit;  but  his  hair,  tousled  beyond  all 
reason,  with  little  wisps  of  it  glued  together  with 
clots  of  blood ;  his  best  clothes  soiled  and  torn ;  a 
bruised  and  naked  knee  showing  through  a  straight 
rent  across  one  leg  of  his  trousers,  conveyed  the 
idea  of  a  recent  passage  through  some  gantlet  of 
disastrous  fortune. 

It  was  nothing,  Tod  said,  only  on  his  way  to 
school  he  had  come  upon  a  blind  man  who  played 
the  riddle  and  sold  lead-pencils,  and  the  boy  who 
had  been  leading  him  had  stolen  something  from 
him;  and  Tod  had  voluntarily  started  in  pursuit 
86 


TOD 

of  the  fugitive,  only  to  overtake  him  after  a  pro 
longed  chase  of  more  than  a  mile.  "And  now 
I've  got  you  out  o'  town,"  said  the  offender, 
wheeling  suddenly  upon  him,  "I'll  jist  meller 
your  head  fer  you!"  After  a  long  pause,  in 
which  Tod's  face  was  hidden  from  the  curious 
group  about  him,  as  the  teacher  bent  above  him 
at  the  back  steps  pouring  water  on  his  head,  he 
continued:  "Didn't  think  the  little  cuss  was  so 
stout!  Oh!  I'm  scratched  up,  but  you  ought  to 
see  him!  And  you  ought  to  hear  him  holler 
''Nuff!'  and  you  ought  to  see  him  hand  over 
three  boxes  of  pens  and  them  penholders  and 
pencils  he  stol'd,  and  a  whole  bunch  o'  envelopes ; 
there's  blood  on  some  of  'em,  and  the  blind  man 
said  I  could  keep  'em,  and  he  give  me  a  lead- 
pencil,  too,  with  red  in  one  end  and  blue  in  the 
other.  Father,  you  sharpen  it." 

Tod  never  spoke  better  in  his  life  than  on  that 
memorable  afternoon — so  well  indeed  did  he  ac 
quit  himself  that  the  good  old  father  failed  to 
censure  him  that  evening  for  the  sin  of  fighting, 
and  perhaps  never  would  have  done  so  had  not 
the  poor  blind  man  so  far  forgotten  the  dignity  of 
his  great  affliction  as  to  get  as  drunk  as  he  was 
blind  two  evenings  following,  and  play  the  fiddle 
in  front  of  the  meeting-house  during  divine  serv 
ice. 


TOD 


It  was  in  the  vacation  following  these  latter- 
mentioned  incidents  that  an  occurrence  of  far  more 
seriousness  took  place. 

Tod  had  never  seen  a  circus,  for  until  this  event 
ful  epoch  in  our  simple  history  the  humble  little 
village  had  never  been  honored  with  the  presence 
of  this  "most  highly  moral  and  instructive  exhibi 
tion  of  the  age."  When  the  grand  cavalcade, 
with  its  blaring  music  and  its  richly  caparisoned 
horses,  with  their  nodding  plumes  and  spangles, 
four  abreast,  drawing  the  identical  "fiery  chariot" 
Tod  had  heard  his  father  talk  about ;  when  all  the 
highly  painted  wagons  with  their  mysterious  con 
tents,  and  the  cunning  fairy  ponies  with  their  lit 
tle,  fluffy  manes  and  flossy  tails — when  all  this 
burst  upon  Tod's  enraptured  eyes,  he  fell  mutely 
into  place  behind  the  band-wagon,  with  its  myriad 
followers ;  and  so,  dazed,  awe-stricken  and  en 
tranced,  accompanied  the  pageant  on  its  grand 
triumphal  march  around  the  town. 

Tod  carried  water  for  the  animals;  Tod  ran 
errands  of  all  kinds  for  the  showmen  ;  Tod  looked 
upon  the  gruff,  ill-tempered  canvas-hand  with  an 
awe  approaching  reverence.  Tod  was  going  to 
the  show,  too,  for  he  had  been  most  fortunate  in 
exchanging  his  poor  services  of  the  morning  for 
the  "open  sesame"  of  all  the  dreamed-of  wonders 
of  the  arena.  Tod  would  laugh  and  whisper  to 
88 


TOD 

himself,  hugging  the  ticket  closely  to  his  palpitat 
ing  side,  as  he  ran  about  on  errands  of  a  hundred 
kinds,  occupying  every  golden  interlude  of  time  in 
drawing  the  magic  passport  from  his  pocket  and 
gloating  over  the  cabalistic  legend  "Complimen 
tary,"  with  the  accompanying  autograph  of  the 
fat  old  manager  with  the  broad,  bejewelled  ex 
panse  of  shirt-front,  and  a  watch-seal  as  big  as  a 
walnut ;  while  on  the  reverse  side  he  would  glut  his 
vision  with  an  "exterior  view  of  the  monster  pa 
vilion,"  where  a  "girl  poised  high  in  air  on  a 
cord,  in  spangled  dress,"  was  kissing  her  hand  to 
a  mighty  concourse  of  people,  who  waved  their 
hats  and  handkerchiefs  in  wildest  token  of  ap 
proval  and  acclaim.  Nor  was  this  the  sole  cause  of 
Tod's  delight,  for  the  fat  man  with  the  big  watch- 
seal  had  seemed  to  take  a  special  fancy  to  him, 
and  had  told  him  he  might  bring  a  friend  along, 
that  his  ticket  would  pass  two.  As  the  gleeful 
Tod  was  scampering  off  to  ask  the  teacher  if  he 
wouldn't  go,  he  met  his  anxious  father  in  a  deep 
state  of  distress,  and  was  led  home  to  listen  in 
agony  and  tears  to  a  dismal  dissertation  on  the 
wickedness  of  shows,  and  the  unending  punish 
ment  awaiting  the  poor,  giddy  moths  that  fluttered 
round  them.  Tod  was  missed  next  morning.  He 
had  retired  very  early  the  evening  previous.  "He 
acted  strange-like,"  said  the  good  grandmother, 


TOD 


recalling  vaguely  that  he  hadn't  eaten  any  supper, 
"and  I  thought  I  heard  him  crying  in  the  night. 
What  was  the  matter  with  him,  Isaac?" 

Two  weeks  later  Tod  was  discovered  by  his 
distracted  father  and  an  officer,  cowering  behind 
a  roll  of  canvas,  whereon  a  fat  man  sat  declaring 
with  a  breezy  nonchalance  that  no  boy  of  Tod's 
description  was  "along  o'this-'ere  party."  And 
the  defiant  Tod,  when  brought  to  light,  emphatic 
ally  asserted  that  the  fat  man  was  in  no  wise 
blamable ;  that  he  had  run  away  on  his  own  hook, 
and  would  do  it  again  if  he  wanted  to.  But  he 
broke  there  with  a  heavy  sob ;  and  the  fat  man 
said:  "There!  there!  Cootsey,  go  along  with 
the  old  'un,  and  here's  a  dollar  for  you."  And 
Tod  cried  aloud. 

The  good  minister  had  brought  a  letter  for  him, 
too,  and  as  the  boy  read  it  through  his  tears  he 
turned  homeward  almost  eagerly. 

"  DEAR  TOD,"  it  ran:  "I  have  been  quite  sick  since 
you  left  me.  You  must  come  back,  for  I  miss  you,  and  I 
can  never  get  well  again  without  you.  I've  got  a  new 
kink  on  a  pair  of  stilts  I've  made  you,  but  I  can't  tell  how 
long  to  make  them  till  you  come  back.  Fanny  comes 
over  every  day,  and  talks  about  you  so  much  I  half  be 
lieve  sometimes  she  likes  you  better  than  she  does  her 
old  sick  uncle;  but  I  can  stand  that,  because  you  deserve 
it,  and  I'm  too  old  for  little  girls  to  like  very  much.  It'll 

90 


TOD 


soon  be  the  Fourth,  you  know,  and  we  must  be  getting 
ready  for  a  big  time.  Come  home  at  once,  for  I  am 
waiting. 

"To  Stoddard  Anderson,  from  his  old  friend  and 
teacher." 

Tod  went  home.  He  hastened  to  the  teacher's 
darkened  room.  The  dear  old  face  had  gown 
pale — so  very  pale!  The  kindly  hand  reached 
out  to  grasp  the  boy's  was  thin  and  wasted,  and 
the  gentle  voice  that  he  had  learned  to  love  was 
faint  and  low — so  very  low,  it  sounded  like  a 
prayer.  The  good  minister  turned  silently  and 
left  the  two  old  friends  together;  and  there  were 
tear-drops  in  his  eyes. 

And  so  the  little,  staggering  life  went  on  alone. 
Some  old  woman  gossip,  peering  through  the  eye 
of  a  needle  on  the  institution  known  as  the 
"Ladies'  Benevolent  Sewing  Society,"  said  that 
"it  'peared  to  her  like  that  boy  of  the  preacher's 
jest  kep'  a-pinin'  and  a-pinin'  away  like,  ever 
sence  they  fetched  him  back  from  his  runaway 
scrape.  She'd  seen  him  time  and  time  again 
sence  then,  and  although  the  little  snipe  was  inno 
cent-like  to  all  appearances,  she'd  be  bound  that 
he  was  in  devilment  enough !  Reckoned  he  was 
too  proud  to  march  in  the  school  p'cession  at  the 
teacher's  funer'l;  and  he  didn't  go  to  the  meetin'- 
house  at  all,  but  putt  off  to  the  graveyard  by  his- 

91 


TOD 

se'f;  and  when  they  got  there  with  the  corpse, 
Tod  was  a-settin'  with  his  legs  a-hangin'  in  the 
grave,  and  a-pitchin'  clods  in,  and  a-smilin'.  And 
only  jest  the  other  evening,"  she  continued,  "as  I 
was  comin'  past  there  kindo'  in  the  dusk-like,  that 
boy  was  a-settin'  a-straddle  o'  the  grave,  and  jest 
a-cryin' !  And  I  thought  it  kindo'  strange-like, 
and  stopped  and  hollered :  'What's  the  matter  of 
ye,  Tod?'  and  he  ups  and  hollers  back:  'Stumpt 
my  toe,  durn  ye!'  and  thinks  I,  'My  youngster, 
they'll  be  a  day  o'  reckonin'  fer  you!'  " 

The  old  world  worried  on,  till  July  came  at  last, 
and  with  it  that  most  glorious  day  that  wrapped 
the  baby  nation  in  its  swaddling-clothes  of  stripes 
and  stars  and  laid  it  in  the  lap  of  Liberty.  And 
what  a  day  that  was !  and  how  the  birds  did  sing 
that  morning  from  the  green  tops  of  the  trees 
when  the  glad  sunlight  came  glancing  through  the 
jewelled  leaves  and  woke  them !  And  not  more 
joyous  were  the  birds,  or  more  riotous  their  little 
throbbing  hearts  to  "pipe  the  trail  and  cheep  and 
twitter  twenty  million  loves,"  than  the  merry 
children  that  came  fluttering  to  the  grove  to  join 
their  revelry. 

O  brighter  than  a  dream  toward  the  boy  that 

swung  his  hat  from  the  tree-top  near  the  brook 

swept  the  procession  of  children  from  the  town. 

And  he  flushed  with   some  strange  ecstasy  as  he 

92 


TOD 


saw  a  little  girl  in  white,  with  a  wreath  of  ever 
green,  wave  her  crimson  sash  in  answer  to  him, 
while  the  column  slowly  filed  across  the  open 
bridge,  where  yet  again  he  saw  her  reappear  in 
the  reflection  in  the  stream  below.  Then,  after 
the  dull  opening  of  prayer,  and  the  more  tedious 
exercises  following,  how  the  woods  did  ring  with 
laughter;  how  the  boys  vied  with  one  another  in 
their  labors  of  arranging  swings  and  clearing  un 
derbrush  away  preparatory  to  a  day  of  unconfined 
enjoyment;  and  how  the  girls  shrieked  to  "see  the 
black  man  coming,"  and  how  coquettishly  they 
struggled  when  captured  and  carried  off  by  that 
dread  being,  and  yet  what  eagerness  they  displayed 
in  his  behalf!  And  "Ring" — men  and  women 
even  joining  in  the  game,  and  kissing  one  anoth 
er's  wives  and  husbands  like  mad.  Why,  even  the 
ugly  old  gentleman,  with  a  carbuncle  on  the  back 
of  his  neck,  grew  riotous  with  mirth,  and  when 
tripped  full  length  upon  the  sward  by  the  little 
widow  in  half-mourning,  bustled  nimbly  to  his 
feet  and  kissed  her,  with  some  wicked  pun  about 
"grass"  widows,  that  made  him  laugh  till  his  face 
grew  as  red  as  his  carbuncle.  That  bashful  young 
man  who  had  straggled  off  alone,  sitting  so  un 
comfortably  upon  a  log,  killing  bugs  and  spiders, 
like  an  ugly  giant  with  a  monster  club — how  he 


93 


TOD 

must  have  envied  the  airy  freedom  of  those  "old 
boys  and  girls" ! 

Then  there  was  a  group  of  older  men  talking  so 
long  and  earnestly  about  the  weather  and  the  crops 
that  they  had  not  discovered  that  the  shade  of  the 
old  beech  they  sat  beneath  had  stolen  silently  away 
and  left  them  sitting  in  the  sun,  and  was  even  then 
performing  its  refreshing  office  for  a  big,  sore-eyed 
dog,  who,  with  panting  jaws  and  lolling  tongue, 
was  winking  away  the  lives  of  a  swarm  of  gnats 
with  the  most  stoical  indifference. 

And  so  time  wore  along  till  dinner  came,  and 
women,  with  big  open  baskets,  bent  above  the 
snowy  cloths  spread  out  upon  the  grass,  arranging 
"the  substantiate"  and  the  dainties  of  a  feast  too 
varied  and  too  toothsome  for  anything  but  epicu 
rean  memories  to  describe.  And  then  the  abandon 
of  the  voracious  guests !  No  dainty  affectations — 
no  formality — no  etiquette — no  anything  but  the 
full  sway  of  healthful  appetites  incited  by  the  ex- 
hilarant  exercises  of  the  day  into  keenest  rapacity 
and  relish. 

"Don't  you  think  it'sgoin'  to  rain?"  asked  some 
one,  suddenly.  A  little  rosy-gilled  gentleman, 
with  the  aid  of  a  chicken-leg  for  a  lever,  raised 
his  fat  face  skyward,  and  after  a  serious  contem 
plation  of  the  clouds  wouldn't  say  for  certain 
whether  it  would  rain  or  not,  but  informed  the  un- 

94 


TOD 


fortunate  querist,  after  pulling  his  head  into  its 
usual  position  and  laying  down  the  lever  to  make 
room  for  a  bite  of  bread,  that  "if  it  didn't  rain 
there 'd  be  a  long  dry  spell"  ;  and  then  he  snorted 
a  mimic  snow-storm  of  bread-crumbs  on  his  vis 
a-vis,  who  looked  wronged,  and  said  he  "guessed 
he'd  take  another  piece  of  that-air  pie  down  there." 

It  was  looking  very  much  like  rain  by  the  time 
the  dinner  things  were  cleared  away.  Anxious 
mothers,  with  preserve-stains  on  their  dresses, 
were  running  here  and  there  with  such  exclama 
tions  to  the  men-folks  as  "Do  hurry  up!"  and 
"For  goodness  sake,  John,  take  the  baby  till  I 
find  my  parasol,"  and  "There,  Thomas,  don't  lug 
that  basket  off  till  I  find  my  pickle-dish!" 

Already  the  girls  had  left  the  swings,  which 
were  being  taken  down,  and  were  tying  handker 
chiefs  over  their  hats  and  standing  in  despairing 
contemplation  of  the  ruin  of  their  dresses.  Some 
one  called  from  the  stand  for  the  ladies  not  to  be 
at  all  alarmed,  it  wasn't  going  to  rain,  and  there 

wasn't  a  particle  of  danger  of ;  but  there  a 

clap  of  thunder  interrupted,  and  went  on  growling 
menacingly,  while  a  little  girl,  with  her  hair  blown 
wildly  over  her  bare  shoulders,  and  with  a  face, 
which  a  moment  before  glowed  like  her  crimson 
scarf,  now  whiter  than  her  snowy  dress,  ran  past 
the  stand  and  fell  fainting  to  the  ground.  "Is 

95 


TOD 


there  a  doctor  on  the  grounds?"  called  a  loud 
voice  in  the  distance,  and,  without  waiting  for  a 
response — "For  God's  sake,  come  here  quick;  a 
boy  has  fallen  from  the  swing,  and  maybe  killed 
himself!" 

And  then  the  crowd  gathered  round  him  there, 
men  with  white  faces,  and  frightened  women  and 
little,  shivering  children. 

"Whose  boy  is  it?" 

"Hush;  here  comes  his  father."  And  the  good 
minister,  with  stark  features  and  clinched  hands, 
passed  through  the  surging  throng  that  closed  be 
hind  him  even  as  the  waves  on  Pharaoh. 

Did  I  say  all  were  excited  ?  Not  all ;  for  there 
was  one  calm  face,  though  very  pale — paler  yet 
for  being  pillowed  on  the  green  grass  and  the 
ferns. 

"You  mustn't  move  me,"  the  boy  said  when  he 
could  speak;  "tell  'em  to  come  here."  He  smiled 
and  tried  to  lift  and  fold  his  arms  about  his  father's 
neck.  "Poor  father!  poor  father!"  as  though 
speaking  to  himself,  "I  always  loved  you,  father, 
only  you'd  never  believe  it — never  believe  it. 
Now  you  will.  I'll  see  mother,  now — mother. 
Don't  cry — I'm  hurt,  and  I  don't  cry.  And  I'll 
see  the  teacher,  too.  He  said  I  would.  He  said 
we  would  always  be  together  there.  Where's 
Fanny?  Tell  her — tell  her— "  But  that  strange 
96 


TOD 

unending  silence  fell  upon  his  lips.,  and  as  the 
dying  eyes  looked  up  and  out  beyond  the  sighing 
tree-tops,  he  smiled  to  catch  a  gleam  of  sunshine 
through  the  foolish  cloud  that  tried  so  hard  to 
weep. 


97 


FAME 


FAME 

ill 

Once,  in  a  dream,  I  saw  a  man, 

With  haggard  face  and  tangled  hair, 
And  eyes  that  nursed  as  wild  a  care 

As  gaunt  Starvation  ever  can; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  a  wand 

Whose  magic  touch  gave  life  and  thought 
Unto  a  form  his  fancy  wrought, 
'And  robed  with  coloring  so  grand, 
It  seemed  the  reflex  of  some  child 
Of  Heaven,  fair  and  undefiled — 
A  face  of  purity  and  love — 
To  woo  him  into  worlds  above. 

And  as  I  gazed,  with  dazzled  eyes, 
A  gleaming  smile  lit  up  his  lips 
As  his  bright  soul  from  its  eclipse 

Went  flashing  into  Paradise. 

Then  tardy  Fame  came  through  the  door 

And  found  a  picture— nothing  more. 

ii 

And  once  I  saw  a  man,  alone, 

In  abject  poverty,  with  hand 
Uplifted  o'er  a  block  of  "stone 

That  took  a  shape  at  his  command 

101 


FAME 

And  smiled  upon  him  fair  and  good — 
A  perfect  work  of  womanhood, 
Save  that  the  eyes  might  never  weep, 
Nor  weary  hands  be  crossed  in  sleep, 
Nor  hair,  that  fell  from  crown  to  wrist, 
Be  brushed  away,  caressed  and  kissed. 
And  as  in  awe  I  gazed  on  her, 
I  saw  the  sculptor's  chisel  fall — 
I  saw  him  sink,  without  a  moan, 
Sink  lifeless  at  the  feet  of  stone, 
And  lie  there  like  a  worshipper. 
Fame  crossed  the  threshold  of  the  hall, 
And  found  a  statue — that  was  all. 


And  once  I  saw  a  man  who  drew 
A  gloom  about  him  like  a  cloak, 
And  wandered  aimlessly.     The  few 

Who  spoke  of  him  at  all,  but  spoke 
Disparagingly  of  a  mind 
The  Fates  had  faultily  designed: 
Too  indolent  for  modern  times — 

Too  fanciful,  and  full  of  whims — 
For  talking  to  himself  in  rhymes, 

And  scrawling  never-heard -of  hymns, 
The  idle  life  to  which  he  clung 
Was  worthless  as  the  songs  he  sung! 
I  saw  him,  in  my  vision,  filled 

With  rapture  o'er  a  spray  of  bloom 
The  wind  threw  in  his  lonely  room; 
And  of  the  sweet  perfume  it  spilled 
He  drank  to  drunkenness,  and  flung 

IO2 


FAME 

His  long  hair  back,  and  laughed  and  sung 

And  clapped  his  hands  as  children  do 

At  fairy  tales  they  listen  to, 

While  from  his  flying  quill  there  dripped 

Such  music  on  his  manuscript 

That  he  who  listens  to  the  words 

May  close  his  eyes  and  dream  the  birds 

Are  twittering  on  every  hand 

A  language  he  can  understand. 

He  journeyed  on  through  life,  unknown, 

Without  one  friend  to  call  his  own, 

He  tired.     No  kindly  hand  to  press 

The  cooling  touch  of  tenderness 

Upon  his  burning  brow,  nor  lift 

To  his  parched  lips  God's  freest  gift — 

No  sympathetic  sob  or  sigh 

Of  trembling  lips — no  sorrowing  eye 

Looked  out  through  tears  to  see  him  die. 

And  Fame  her  greenest  laurels  brought 

To  crown  a  head  that  heeded  not. 

And  this  is  fame!     A  thing,  indeed, 

That  only  comes  when  least  the  need: 

The  wisest  minds  of  every  age 

The  book  of  life  from  page  to  page 

Have  searched  in  vain;  each  lesson  conned 

Will  promise  it  the  page  beyond — 

Until  the  last,  when  dusk  of  night 

Falls  over  it,  and  reason's  light 

Is  smothered  by  that  unknown  friend 

Who  signs  his  nom  de  plume.  The  End. 


103 


A  REMARKABLE  MAN 


A  REMARKABLE  MAN 

IN  the  early  winter  1875,  returning  from  a  rather 
lengthy  sojourn  in  the  Buckeye  State,  where  a 
Hoosier  is  scrutinized  as  critically  as  a  splinter  in 
the  thumb  of  a  near-sighted  man,  I  mentally  re 
solved  that  just  as  soon  as  the  lazy  engine  dragging 
me  toward  home  had  poked  its  smutty  nose  into 
the  selvedge  of  my  native  State,  I  would  disem 
bark,  lift  my  voice,  and  shout  for  joy  for  being 
safely  delivered  out  of  a  land  of  perpetual  stran 
gers. 

This  opportunity  was  afforded  me  at  Union 
City — a  fussy  old-hen-of-a-town,  forever  clucking 
over  its  little  brood  of  railroads,  as  though  worried 
to  see  them  running  over  the  line,  and  bristling 
with  the  importance  of  its  charge. 

The  place  is  not  an  attractive  one,  stepping  from 
the  train  in  the  early  dusk  of  a  December  evening; 
in  fact,  the  immediate  view  of  the  town  is  almost 
entirely  concealed  by  a  big  square-faced  hotel, 
standing,  as  it  were,  on  the  very  platform,  as 
though  its  "runners"  were  behind  time,  and  it  had 
come  down  to  solicit  its  own  custom.  A  walk  of 
107 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

sixty  steps,  however,  gave  me  a  sweeping  view  of 
the  main  business  street  of  the  city;  and  here  it 
was,  by  one  of  those  rare  freaks  of  circumstance, 
that  I  suddenly  found  myself  standing  face  to  face 
with  an  old  friend.  "Smith!"  said  I.  "Correct!" 
said  he,  and  all  lacking  to  complete  the  tableau 
was  the  red  light.  And  now,  as  my  story  has 
more  to  do  with  a  more  remarkable  man  than 
either  Smith  or  myself,  I  shall  hasten  to  that 
notable — only  introducing  humbler  personages  as 
necessity  demands. 

That  night  was  a  bragging,  blustering,  bullying 
sort  of  a  night.  The  wind  was  mad — stark,  star 
ing  mad;  running  over  and  around  the  town, 
howling  and  whooping  like  a  maniac.  It  whirled 
and  whizzed,  and  wheeled  about  and  whizzed 
again.  It  pelted  the  pedestrian's  face  with  dust 
that  stung  like  sleet.  It  wrenched  at  the  signs, 
and  rattled  the  doors  and  windows  till  the  lights 
inside  shivered  as  with  affright.  The  unfurled 
awnings  fluttered  and  flapped  over  the  deserted 
streets  like  monstrous  bats  or  birds  of  prey;  and, 
gritting  their  iron  teeth,  the  shutters  lunged  and 
snapped  at  their  fastenings  convulsively.  Such  a 
night  as  we  like  to  hide  away  from,  and  with  a 
good  cigar,  a  good  friend,  and  a  good  fire,  talk  of 
soothing  things  and  dream.  My  friend  and  I  were 
not  so  isolated,  however,  upon  this  occasion;  for 
1 08 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

the  suddenness  of  the  storm  had  driven  us,  for 
shelter,  into  "Bowers's  Emporium";  and,  seated 
in  the  rear  of  the  spacious  and  brightly  illuminated 
store,  we  might  almost  "dream  we  dwelt  in  mar 
ble  halls,"  were  it  not  for  the  rather  profuse  dis 
play  of  merchandise  and  a  voluminous  complement 
of  show-cards,  reading  "Bargains  in  Overcoats," 
"Best  and  Cheapest  Underwear,"  "Buy  Bowers's 
Boots!"  etc. 

The  clerks  were  all  idle,  and  employing  their 
leisure  in  listening  to  a  "fine-art"  conversation, 
casually  introduced  by  my  friend  remarking  the 
extraordinary  development  of  the  bust  and  limbs 
of  a  danseuse  on  a  paper  collar-box ;  and  after  de 
ploring  the  prostitution  to  which  real  talent  was 
subjected,  and  satirizing  the  general  degeneracy 
of  modern  art,  he  had  drifted  back  to  the  rare  old 
days  of  Hans  Holbein,  Albert  Diirer,  and  that 
guild.  And  while  dwelling  enthusiastically  upon 
the  genius  of  Angelo,  I  became  aware  that  among 
the  listeners  was  a  remarkable  man.  It  was  not 
his  figure  that  impressed  me,  for  that  was  of  the 
ordinary  mould,  and  rather  shabbily  attired  in  a 
tattered  and  ill-fitting  coat  of  blue,  sadly  faded 
and  buttonless ;  a  short-waisted  vest  of  no  particu 
lar  pattern,  fastened  together  by  means  of  a  loos 
ened  loop  of  binding  pulled  through  a  button-hole, 
and  held  to  its  place  by  a  stumpy  lead-pencil  with 
109 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

a  preponderance  of  rubber  at  the  end ;  the  panta 
loons  very  baggy  and  fraying  at  the  bottoms,  as 
though  in  excessive  sympathy  with  a  pair  of 
coarse,  ungainly  army  shoes  that  wore  the  appear 
ance  of  having  been  through  "Sherman's  march 
to  the  sea." 

Not  remarkable,  I  say,  in  these  particulars,  for 
since  "tramping"  has  arrived  at  the  dignity  of  a 
profession,  such  characteristics  are  by  no  means 
uncommon ;  but  when  taken  in  conjunction  with 
a  head  and  face  that  would  have  served  as  model 
for  either  Abraham,  Isaac,  or  Jacob,  in  patriarchal 
cast  of  feature  and  flow  of  beard,  it  is  no  wonder 
that  my  fancy  saw  in  the  figure  before  me  a  re 
markable  man.  He  stood  uncovered,  and  in  an 
eager  listening  attitude,  as  though  drinking  every 
syllable  to  the  very  dregs.  His  eyes  were  large 
and  lustrous,  and  with  that  dreamy,  far-off  look 
peculiar  to  that  quality  of  mind  that  sees  what  is 
described,  even  though  buried  inPompeiian  ruins, 
or  under  the  pyramids  of  Egypt. 

He  met  my  rather  scrutinizing  gaze  with  a 
friendly  and  forgiving  expression — adding  an  in 
tuitive  affinity  by  a  nestling  of  the  palms  one  within 
the  other  and  a  genial  friction  indicative  of  warm 
impulse  and  openness,  yet  withal  suggesting  a 
due  subservience  to  my  own  free  will  to  accept 


no 


A    RKMARKABLE    MAN 

the  same  as  token  of  genuine  esteem  and  admira 
tion. 

I  thought  I  read  his  character  aright  in  fancying, 
"Here  is  a  man  of  more  than  ordinary  culture  and 
refinement,"  and  I  determined,  if  it  were  possi 
ble,  to  know  him  better.  When  I  took  an  early 
opportunity  to  refer  to  him  for  information  he  re 
sponded  eagerly,  and  in  so  profuse  and  elegant  a 
style  of  diction  that  I  was  surprised. 

He  referred  to  Angelo  as  "that  master  whose 
iron  pencil  painted  language  on  lips  of  stone,  and 
whose  crudest  works  in  clay  might  well  outlive  the 
marble  monuments  of  modern  art."  He  glanced 
from  one  topic  to  another  with  a  grace  and  ease 
that  not  only  betokened  a  true  mastery  of  the 
language,  but  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  informa 
tion;  nor  was  it  long  ere  my  "stock  in  hand"  had 
dwindled  down  to  the  insignificant  "yes-and-of- 
course"  verbosity  that  is  not  worth  the  giving 
away.  He  dwelt  with  particular  fondness  upon 
literature ;  frequently  referring  to  me  as  to  works 
I  most  admired,  and  pointing  out  the  beauties  and 
excellence  of  old  authors — Shakespeare,  Milton, 
Pope,  Dryden,  and  a  host  of  others  long  dead  and 
gone,  but  whose  works  live  on  eternally.  All 
these,  as  they  were  successively  reviewed,  he 
quoted  in  a  manner  that  evinced  a  thorough  knowl 
edge  of  their  worth. 

in 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

At  last,  after  no  little  artifice  and  strategy,  I 
drew  him  to  his  own  history,  which,  as  he  pro 
ceeded  with,  grew  fantastically  interesting.  His 
father,  passing  rich,  had  educated  him  for  the 
ministry;  but  the  profession  didn't  suit  him — or, 
rather,  he  didn't  suit  the  profession;  for,  to  be 
frank,  he  was  rather  inclined  in  his  younger  days 
to  be  a  "graceless  dog"  ;  and  so,  when  it  became 
evident  that  he  must  shift  for  himself,  more  at  the 
instigation  of  literary  friends  than  from  any  ambi 
tion  or  choice,  he  had  entered  the  journalistic  field, 
beginning  at  the  bottom  of  the  ladder — the  bot 
tom — and  gradually  rising  from  the  compositor's 
case  to  the  very  rung  of  editorial  success — when 
there  came  a  crash, — a  flaw  in  the  grain,  my  boy, 
a  flaw  in  the  grain — and  that  flaw —  Well,  no 
matter! — The  noblest  minds  had  toppled  from  the 
height,  and  crumbled  to  the  merest  debris  of 
pauper  intellect.  The  grandest  tomb  the  finger 
of  the  nation  could  point  out  was  glutted  with 
such  food.  Did  he  not  remember  poor  Prentice, 
and,  in  memory,  recall  him  now  as  vividly  as 
though  but  yesterday,  entering  the  sanctum  of  the 
Louisville  "Journal,"  with  the  old-time  greeting: 
"Ah,  Charles;  ready  for  work,  I  see.  Well,  here 
am  I — punctual  as  Death."  And  then,  after  a 
good  stiff  brandy,  which  he  could  hardly  raise  to 
his  lips  with  both  trembling  hands,  poor  George! 
112 


A    REMARKABLE   MAN 

how  he  would  dictate,  so  rapidly  that  he  (Charles) 
could  scarcely  put  it  down,  although  a  clever  hand 
at  writing  in  those  days.  Served  as  amanuensis 
for  five  years,  and  transcribed  with  his  own  hand, 
"'Tis  Midnight's  Holy  Hour,"  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  morning,  and  had  the  poem  entire  ready  for 
the  compositor  at  half-past.  At  such  times  it  was 
nothing  uncommon  for  George  to  say,  "Well 
done,  thou  Good  and  Faithful !  the  big  end  of  the 
day  is  left  you  to  transcribe  as  your  pleasure  may 
dictate.  Only  bear  in  mind,  I  shall  expect  a  little 
gem  from  your  individual  pen  for  to-morrow's 
issue!" 

"And  do  you  write?"  I  broke  in  abruptly. 

"I  used  to  write,"  he  answered,  as  though  loath 
to  make  the  acknowledgment — "that  is,  I  some 
times  rode  Pegasus  as  a  groom  might  ride  his 
master's  horse — but  my  flights  were  never  high — 
never  high!" 

"For  what  reason,  may  I  inquire?  Surely  you 
had  no  lack  of  inspiration  with  such  men  as  Pren 
tice  about  you?" 

"Ay,  there's  the  rub!"  he  sighed,  with  a  nega 
tive  shake.  "The  association  of  great  men  does 
not  always  tend  to  develop  genius ;  the  more  espe 
cially  when  one's  subservient  position  revolution 
izes  him  into  a  mere  machine.  Yet  I  found  some 
time,  of  course,  for  verse-making;  and,  chiefly 

"3 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

owing  to  the  kindly  encouragement  of  Mr.  Pren 
tice,  I  'gave  to  the  world, '  as  he  was  pleased  to  say, 
many  little  poems  ;  but  those  of  them  that  survive 
to-day  are  vagrants,  like  myself,  and  drifting  about 
at  the  mercy  of  the  press."  Here  the  old  man 
sighed  heavily  and  mechanically  fumbled  his 
pencil. 

I  was  growing  deeply  interested  in  the  strange 
character  before  me,  and  although  the  faces  of  the 
group  smiled  at  me  significantly,  I  was  not  to  be 
beguiled  from  my  new  acquaintance. 

"There  is  a  question,"  said  I,  "I  would  like  to 
ask  you,  since  from  actual  experience  you  are 
doubtless  well  informed  upon  it: — I  have  often 
heard  it  argued  that  the  best  productions  of  au 
thors — poets  in  particular — are  written  under  the 
influence  of  what  they  are  pleased  to  term  'inspi 
ration'  ;  can  you  enlighten  me  as  [to  the  truth  of 
that  assertion?" 

"I  can  say  in  reply,"  said  the  old  man,  with  his 
unwavering  eyes  fixed  upon  mine — "I  can  say  in 
reply  that  the  best  productions  of  authors — poets 
in  particular — are  written  under  the  influence  of 
what  they  are  pleased  to  term  'inspiration.'  I  have 
seen  it  proved." 

"How  proved?"  I  asked. 

"Listen.  Take,  for  example,  an  instance  I  will 
cite:  A  man  worn  and  enfeebled  by  age,  whose 
114 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

eyes  are  dimmed  to  sightlessness  almost;  whose 
mind,  once  clear  and  vivid  as  the  light  of  day,  is 
now  wavering  and  fickle  as  the  wind :  and  yet  at 
times  this  influence  comes  upon  him  like  an  ava 
lanche,  and  as  irresistible  ;  a  voice  cries,  'Write ! 
write !  write ! '  nor  does  he  know,  when  he  has 
obeyed  that  summons,  what  his  trembling  hand 
has  written.  Further,  that  this  is  divine  inspira 
tion,  his  fragmentary  productions  will  oftentimes 
be  in  the  exact  manner  and  diction  of  writers  long 
since  passed  away;  and  I  am  satisfied  they  are 
produced  at  the  direct  dictation  of  the  departed.  I 
know  this !" 

"You  astonish  me,"  said  I,  in  unfeigned  won 
der;  "you  say  you  know  this — how  do  you  know 
it?" 

"Because  I  am  the  man." 

Although  the  assertion,  in  my  mind,  was  simply 
preposterous,  there  was  a  certain  majesty  in  the 
utterance  that  held  me  half  in  awe.  I  looked  upon 
him  as  one  might  look  upon  some  curious  being 
from  an  unknown  world.  He  was  moving  now — 
pacing  grotesquely  up  and  down  a  little  space  of 
half  a  dozen  steps,  and  wheeling,  at  the  limits  of 
his  walk,  as  nimbly  as  the  harlequin  in  the  panto 
mime,  and  repeating,  as  though  to  himself,  "I  am 
the  man;  I  am  the  man." 

"Well,  sir,"  said  I,  forcing  myself  into  an  air 

"5 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

of  indifference  I  did  not  feel — "well,  sir,  not  for 
a  moment  questioning  your  own  belief  as  to  this 
strange  influence  which  may  possess  you  at  times, 
you  will  pardon  me  for  expressing  the  vaguest 
scepticism,  since  I  have  never  been  so  fortunate 
as  to  witness  an  actual  demonstration."  He  was 
about  to  interrupt  me,  but  I  continued  coolly,  "By 
what  circumstance  is  this  influence  introduced — or 
how  produced — is  it — " 

He  broke  in  on  me  with  a  keen  little  pang  of  a 
laugh  that  almost  made  me  shudder.  "You  are 
my  convert,"  he  exclaimed  excitedly.  "Quick! 
Give  me  paper — give  me  paper!"  But  before  I 
could  take  my  note-book  from  my  pocket  he  had 
hurriedly  snatched  a  scrap  of  wrapping-paper  from 
the  counter,  and  bending  over  it,  was  writing  with 
great  rapidity. 

His  manner  was  decidedly  singular.  In  the  oc 
casional  pauses  he  would  make  he  would  lean  his 
forehead  in  the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  with  the 
fingers  dancing  nervously  upon  the  bald  spot  on 
the  summit  of  his  head,  while  with  the  hand  that 
held  the  pencil  he  kept  up  a  continued  rotary 
movement  in  the  air.  Then  he  would  suddenly 
pounce  down  upon  the  paper  before  him  as  though 
in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  delight,  and  line  after  line 
would  appear  as  if  by  magic,  each  succeeding  one 
preluded  by  that  sharp  little  yelp  of  a  laugh :  and 
116 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

ere  three  minutes  had  elapsed,  he  had  covered 
both  sides  of  the  paper.  He  then  threw  down  his 
pencil,  as  though  reluctantly,  pushed  me  the  scrap 
and  motioned  me  to  read. 

I  was  at  first  completely  mystified,  for  what  I 
had  confidently  expected  to  be  rhyme  was  prose  ; 
but  ere  I  had  examined  it  far  I  was  as  highly  grati 
fied  as  at  first  disappointed.  The  writing,  al 
though  so  recklessly  scrawled,  was  quite  legible, 
and  here  and  there  gave  evidence  of  more  than 
ordinary  grace  and  elegance ;  the  punctuation,  so 
far  as  I  was  able  to  judge,  seemed  perfect  in  every 
part;  and,  in  fact,  the  entire  production  bore  the 
appearance  of  having  been  executed  by  a  skillful 
hand. 

I  copy  it  verbatim  from  the  original  scrap,  which 
now  lies  before  me : 

By  this  time  they  had  come  upon  the  figure  of  the  old 
hag,  seated  by  the  roadside,  and,  in  harsh,  cracked  voice, 
crooning  a  dismal  ballad.  "  By  God's  rood,"  quoth  the 
knight,  in  a  burst  of  admiration,  "  did  I  not  tell  thee  'twas 
some  fair  princess,  decoyed  from  her  father's  castle  and 
thus  transformed,  through  the  despicable  arts  of  some 
wicked  enchanter;  for  thou  hast  but  to  perk  an  ear  to 
have  the  sense  of  hearing  bathed  and  overflowed  with 
melody.  Dost  thou  not  also  note  rare  grace  and  sweetest 
dignity  voiced,  as  it  were,  from  the  very  tatters  that  en- 
clothe  her  form?"  "  Indeed  thou  mayest,"  said  the  squire; 
"for  I  have  heard  it  said  'rags  may  enfold  the  purest 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

gold.' — Yet  in  this  instance  I  am  restrained  to  think  it 
more  like  the  hidalgo's  dinner — 'very  little  meat  and  a 
good  deal  of  table-cloth.'"  "Hold  thy  peace,  bladder- 
head,"  exclaimed  the  knight,  "lest  I  make  thee  gnaw  thy 
words  with  loosened  teeth.  Listen  what  liquid  syllables 
are  spilled  upon  the  atmosphere:  " 

'  My  father's  halls,  so  rich  and  rare, 
Are  desolate  and  bleak  and  bare; 
My  father's  heart  and  halls  are  one, 
Since  I,  their  life  and  light,  am  gone. 

'  O,  valiant  knight,  with  hand  of  steel 
And  heart  of  gold,  hear  my  appeal: 
Release  me  from  the  spoiler's  charms, 
And  bear  me  to  my  father's  arms.' 

The  knight  had  by  this  time  thrown  himself  from  his 
steed,  and  with  lance  reversed  and  visor  doffed  he  sank 
upon  his  knees  in  the  slime  and  ooze  of  the  dike,  exclaim 
ing:  "Be  of  good  heart,  fair  princess!  Thy  succor  is  at 
hand,  since  the  Fates  have  woven  thee — the  pearl  of 
pearls — into  the  warp  and  woof  of  my  great  destiny. 
Nay,  nay!  No  thanks!  Thy  father's  beaming  eye  alone 
shall  be  my  guerdon,  for  home  thou  shalt  go,  even  though 
I  must  needs  truckle  thee  thither  on  a  barrow." 

"Good,"  said  I,  grasping  the  old  man  by  the 
hand.  "Hail,  Cervantes!" 

"Cervantes?  Cervantes?"  he  mused,  as  though 
bewildered;  "why,  what  have  I  been  writing?  Is 
it  not  poetry?" 

"Yes,"  I  replied  enthusiastically,  "both  prose 
118 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

and  poetry,  and  that  of  the  rarest  school.     Read 
for  yourself." 

I  handed  him  the  scrap,  but  he  pushed  it  from 
him  with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "I  told  you 
once  I  could  not  read  it,  nor  do  I  know  what  I 
have  written.  Read  it  aloud." 

Although  I  hastened  to  comply,  I  did  it  with  a 
decided  air  of  incredulity  as  to  the  belief  that  he 
did  not  already  know  every  word  of  it,  and  even 
closed  with  the  gratuitous  comment  that  I  felt 
assured  the  quotation  was  perfect  in  every  par 
ticular. 

"Quotation!"  repeated  the  old  man,  commiser- 
atively;  "quotation!  Were  you  as  well  versed  in 
such  works,  my  son,  as  you  led  me  at  first  to  pre 
sume,  you  would  know  at  once  that  not  a  single 
line  of  that  occurs  in  'Don  Quixote,'  although  I 
do  grant  that  I  am  the  humble  instrument  through 
which  the  great  Cervantes  has  just  spoken."  With 
this  remark,  delivered  in  a  half-rebuking,  half- 
compassionate  tone,  he  stood  milking  his  beard 
and  blinking  at  the  chandelier. 

I  acknowledged  my  error,  and  asked  pardon  for 
the  insinuation,  which  I  begged  he  would  believe 
was  not  intended  to  offend ;  and  that,  upon  second 
thought,  I  was  satisfied  that  no  such  matter  did 
exist  in  the  printed  history,  which  fact  I  have  since 
proved  by  a  thorough  investigation. 
119 


A  REMARKABLE  MAN 

It  required,  however,  considerable  inventive  tact 
and  show  of  admiration  to  counteract  the  effect  of 
my  indiscreet  remark ;  and  not  was  this  effectually 
accomplished  until  I  had  incidentally  discovered  a 
marked  resemblance  of  his  brow  to  Shakespeare's, 
which,  by  actual  measurement,  I  found  to  corre 
spond  to  a  fraction  with  the  measurement  of  the 
mask  of  that  illustrious  bard,  as  furnished  by  an 
exhaustive  article  I  had  seen  a  short  time  previous 
in  one  of  our  magazines. 

This  happily  brought  about  the  result  I  so  much 
longed  for,  as  I  was  extremely  desirous  of  a  fur 
ther  opportunity  in  which  to  study  the  character  of 
this  remarkable  man.  "Ah,  Shakespeare!"  said 
he,  in  a  burst  of  genuine  eloquence, — "there  was 
a  mind  the  gods  endowed  with  wisdom  ages  have 
yet  to  learn ;  for  bright  and  lustrous  as  it  shines 
to-day — the  Morning  Star  of  human  intellect — its 
glittering  purity  has  yet  a  million  million  dawns, 
each  brighter  than  the  last.  Its  chastened  rays  are 
yet  to  blaze  and  radiate  the  darkened  ways — 
Hold !  My  pencil !  Quick — quick ! ' ' 

He  snatched  at  the  paper  wildly,  and  bending 
over  it,  began  writing  with  a  vindictiveness  of  ef 
fort  that  was  alarming.  He  slashed  the  /'s  and 
stabbed  the  punctuation-points  savagely.  The 
writing  continued,  interspersed  occasionally  with 
a  pause  in  which  he  would  flourish  his  pencil  like 
120 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

a  dripping  sword,  only  to  be  plunged  again  and 
again  into  the  quivering  breast  of  its  victim.  Fi 
nally  he  dashed  it  down,  pushed  the  paper  from 
him  as  one  would  spurn  a  vanquished  enemy,  and 
sank,  limp  and  exhausted,  into  a  chair.  I  snatched 
up  the  paper  eagerly,  and  read : 

Falstaff.    I  call   him  dog,  forsooth,  because  he 

snarls — 

Snarls,  d'ye  hear? — and  laves  his  rabid  fangs 
In  slobber-froth  that  drips  in  slimy  gouts 
Of  venomous  slander.     Out  upon  the  curl 
He  sets  his  mangy  foot  upon  the  sod, 
And  grass  grows  rank  and  withers  at  the  touch, 
And  tangles  into  wiry  thatch  for  snakes 
To  spawn  beneath.    The  very  air  he  breathes 
Becomes  a  poison  gas,  and  generates 
Disease  and  pestilence.     Would  he  were  here, 
That  I  might  whet  my  sword  against  his  ribs, 
Although  his  rotten,  putrid  soul  unhoused 
Would  breed  a  stench  worse  than  my  barber's 

breath. 
The  dog!    The  damnable— 

Pistol.    Hist!  here  he  comes! 
God's  body!  master,  has  he  overheard, 
'Tis  cock-crow  with  thy  ghost! 

{Enter  Poins.)     How  now,  my  Jack — 

Prince  ass  of  Jacks,  methought  I  heard  thee  bray. 


121 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

Falstajf.     Ay,  well   and  marry!  for  this   varlet 

here 

Deserves  more  brays  than  praise,  the  scurvy  dog! 
Good  lack!  thou  might'st  have  heard  me  call  him 

dog 
A  pebble's  toss  from  this;  but  now  that  thou  art 

come, 

My  dagger-points  of  wrath  do  melt  away 
Before  thy  genial  smile  as  icicles 
Might  ooze  to  nothingness  at  summer  noon. 
That  other  flask,  you  dog!  and  have  a  care 
Thou  handle  it  more  gently  than  the  first, 
Lest  I,  as  thou  didst  it,  thy  noddle  burst." 

Although  expecting  something  after  the  Shake 
spearian  school,  I  was  not  prepared  for  this,  and 
in  reading  it  aloud  I  actually  found  myself  endeav 
oring  to  imitate  the  stage  manner  of  Hackett, 
whom  years  ago  I  had  seen  in  "King  Henry  IV" 
at  the  old  Metropolitan,  Indianapolis.  "Ah!" 
said  the  old  man,  "you  are  more  familiar  with 
that,  I  see.  Tell  me,  have  you  ever  seen  those 
lines  in  'Shakespeare'?"  There  was  such  a  look 
of  conscious  triumph  in  his  face,  so  self-satisfied 
an  expression,  that  I — although  half  believing  I 
was  in  some  way  being  duped — could  but  reply 
that  I  was  most  thoroughly  convinced  the  lines 
did  not  occur  in  any  of  the  works  of  that  great 
master. 

"They  do  not,"  said  the  old  man,  briefly. 

122 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

"But  how,"  said  I,  "is  it  possible  for  you  to  so 
perfectly  imitate  his  style,  not  only  in  language, 
but  theme,  expression,  force,  character,  grotesque- 
ness—" 

"Stop,  my  son;  stop!"  he  broke  in. — "Must  I 
again  remind  you  that  it  is  not  imitation :  I  take 
no  credit  to  myself — how  dare  I  when  in  writing 
thus  my  individual  mind  is  gone,  simply  chaotic? 
It  is  not  imitation;  it  is  Shakespeare." 

I  could  venture  no  further  comment  without  fear 
of  offending,  and  he  already  stood  as  though  hesi 
tating  to  depart. 

"Stay,  then,"  said  I,  "until  I  see  a  further  ex 
ercise  of  this  marvellous  power  you  possess. 
Here,  sit  down,  rest  awhile ;  you  seem  almost  ex 
hausted." 

"I  am  nearly  so,"  he  replied,  "but  there  is  no 
rest  for  me  until  this  influence  is  entirely  subsided. 
No  rest  for  me  yet;  no  rest!  no  rest!" 

He  was  again  pacing  his  old  walk,  now  like  a 
weary  sentinel,  and  I  thought  as  I  gazed  upon 
him,  "What  riddle  of  the  human  kind  is  this?" 
Over  and  over  again  came  the  question ;  and  over 
and  over  an  old  rhyme  I  had  somewhere  read, 
mockingly  responded — 

"  Rain,  rain,  and  sun!  a  rainbow  in  the  sky! 
A  young  man  will  be  wiser  by  and  by; 
An  old  man's  wit  may  wander  ere  he  die." 

123 


A    REMARKABLE    MAN 

And  lulled  by  the  mild  monotony  of  this,  I  was 
fast  drifting  into  a  dreamy  train  of  thought,  when 
the  old  man  halted  suddenly,  and  with  one  elbow 
leaning  on  the  counter  and  his  head  resting  on  his 
hand,  he  began  humming  a  tune — a  strangely 
sweet  and  tender  air;  low,  and  just  a  little  harsh 
at  first  and  indistinct,  but  welling  softly  into 
cadence  wonderfully  rich  and  pure ;  then  quaver 
ing  again  in  minor  swoons  of  melody  so  delicately 
beautiful  I  can  but  liken  the  effect  produced  to  that 
ethereal  mystery  of  sound  unravelled  from  the 
zithern  by  a  master  hand, — 

"A  slender  thread  of  song  in  saddest  tune." 

I  had  leaned  forward  with  my  own  head  resting 
in  my  hand,  that  I  might  the  better  listen,  and  was 
not  aware,  until  the  song  abruptly  ended,  that  the 
old  man  had  been  writing  as  he  sang. 

"There,"  said  he,  handing  me  the  scrap,  "you 
have  heard  the  tune;  here  are  the  words,  per 
haps." 

It  may  have  been  a  very  foolish  thing,  it  may 
have  been  weak  and  womanish,  yet  as  my  eyes 
bent  over  it  and  read,  the  lines  grew  curiously 
blurred  toward  the  last ;  nor  did  I  guess  the  cause 
until  a  tear — a  great  ripe  tear-drop — fell  upon  my 
hand.  And,  reader,  could  I  present  the  song  to 
you  just  as  it  came  to  me,  with  all  the  strange  sur- 
124 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

roundings — the  stranger  experience  of  the  hour; 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  group ;  the  wailing  of 
the  wind  outside  as  though  the  world,  weary  of 
itself,  could  only  sigh,  sigh,  sigh! — could  I  pre 
lude  it  with  that  low,  sweet  murmuring  of  melody 
that  haunts  me  even  now,  your  own  eyes  needs 
must  moisten  as  you  read : 

THE  HARP  OF  THE  MINSTREL. 

The  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 

As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 
For  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Cannot  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright; 
But  oh!  as  the  smile  of  the  moon  may  impart 

A  sorrow  to  one  in  an  alien  clime, 
Let  the  light  of  the  melody  fall  on  the  heart, 

And  cadence  his  grief  into  musical  rhyme. 

The  faces  have  faded,  the  eyes  have  grown  dim 

That  once  were  his  passionate  love  and  his  pride; 
And  alas!  all  the  smiles  that  once  blossomed  for  him 

Have  fallen  away  as  the  flowers  have  died. 
The  hands  that  entwined  him  the  laureate's  wreath 

And  crowned  him  with  fame  in  the  long,  long  ago, 
Like  the  laurels  are  withered  and  folded  beneath 

The  grass  and  the  stubble — the  frost  and  the  snow. 

Then  sigh,  if  thou  wilt,  as  the  whispering  strings 
Strive  ever  in  vain  for  the  utterance  clear, 

And  think  of  the  sorrowful  spirit  that  sings, 
And  jewel  the  song  with  the  gem  of  a  tear. 

"5 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

For  the  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  tone 
As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  to-night, 

And  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  alone 

Cannot  waken  the  echoes  that  breathe  it  aright. 

I  had  read  the  lines  over  to  myself,  and  al 
though  recognizing  many  touches  decidedly  like 
those  of  the  famous  author  of  Lalla  Rookh,  I  was 
not  wholly  satisfied  with  the  production ;  and  it 
struck  me  with  peculiar  force  that  an  ethereal 
composition  would  surely  not  be  so  lavishly  tinct 
ured  with  unutterable  sorrow — aside  from  being 
far  inferior  to  a  hundred  earthly  songs  of  Moore's. 
So,  with  this  argument  for  my  weapon,  I  deter 
mined  to  conquer  the  superstition  that  had  almost 
overpowered  me.  I  had  noticed,  too,  in  both 
former  instances  a  singular  fact:  The  old  man, 
though  so  ready  to  fend  off  all  comment  that 
might  reflect  a  single  ray  of  praise  upon  himself, 
listened  with  more  of  the  air  of  a  critic  than  one 
whose  interest  was  merely  that  of  curiosity,  and 
still  when  the  fragmentary  productions  were  read 
aloud,  a  look  of  more  than  ordinary  satisfaction 
would  lighten  up  his  eyes.  These  facts,  hastily 
reviewed,  determined  me  upon  a  course  of  action 
I  had  instant  opportunity  to  adopt. 

"Read  it  aloud,"  said  the  old  man,  impatiently; 
"read  it  aloud!" 

I  complied  with  more  than  usual  enthusiasm, 
126 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

reading  verbatim  from  the  copy,  until  I  came  to 
the  repetition  of  the  first  four  lines,  which  I  thus 
transposed,  or,  rather,  paraphrased. 

"  The  harp  of  the  minstrel  has  never  a  note 

As  sad  as  the  song  in  his  bosom  expressed, 
And  the  magical  touch  of  his  fingers  afloat 

Drifts  over  the  echoes  that  sleep  in  the  breast!'1 

This  I  was  careful  to  deliver  without  emphasis  or 
mark  of  any  kind  by  which  he  might  discover  any 
imposition  on  my  part.  As  I  closed  I  stole  a  hasty 
glance  at  his  face,  and  was  gratified  to  find  it  wear 
ing  a  rather  startled  expression :  not  only  did  his 
features  betray  a  puzzled  and  questioning  air,  but 
his  hand  was  mechanically  extended,  as  though 
reaching  for  the  paper  in  my  own. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  it?"  I  asked  suddenly, 
handing  him  the  scrap. 

"Yes,  I — Oh,  no — no,"  he  broke  in,  dropping 
his  hand,  and  his  face  coloring  vividly ;  but  turning 
again  as  quickly,  he  added:  "Yes,  give  it  to  me. 
Where  are  the  others?  I  must  be  going." 

"Why  must  you  go?"  I  asked,  still  retaining 
the  scrap;  "I  had  hoped — " 

'  'I  am  going ! "  he  interrupted,  brusquely,  snatch 
ing  up  the  scraps  that  lay  upon  the  counter,  and 
reaching  for  the  one  I  still  held.     "Give  me  the 
poem.     I  will  trouble  you  no  longer." 
127 


A   REMARKABLE    MAN 

"Allow  me  to  retain  it,  I  beg  of  you,"  said  I, 
with  a  significant  smile,  and  the  slightest  tinge  of 
sarcasm  in  my  voice.  "Let  me  keep  it  as  a  befit 
ting  memento  of  the  'inspiration'  I  have  seen  so 
potently  exercised." 

His  face  was  pale  with  anger  as  he  replied : 

"I  will  not.  When  you  want  rhyme  write  it 
yourself. — You  can  at  least  write  doggerel." 

"Very  neat,"  said  I,  laughing.  "We  under 
stand  each  other,  so  let's  be  friends.  Here  is  my 
hand  and  a  dollar  besides.  Give  me  the  other 
scraps — I  want  them  all." 

I  took  them  from  him  as  he  clutched  at  the  bill, 
which  he  smothered  in  his  palm,  and  turned  away 
without  a  word. 

"Here,  Charley,"  called  one  of  the  bystanders, 
"half  of  that's  enough  for  you  to-night." 

The  door  slammed  violently  and  he  was  gone. 

"Old  Cain  will  have  that  dollar  in  just  five 
minutes,"  continued  the  man. 

"And  who's  Old  Cain?"  I  asked. 

"Keeps  the  doggery  just  over  the  line." 

"Old  Charley"  M is  a  well-known  character 

in  Union  City — his  home,  in  fact,  although  he  often 
disappears  for  long  periods,  but,  as  my  informant 
remarked,  "always  turns  up  again  like  a  bad 
penny." 

His  story  of  his  early  life  is  at  least  based  upon 
128 


A    REMARKABLE   MAN 

the  truth,  but  now  so  highly  colored  it  is  a  de 
cidedly  difficult  matter  to  detect  that  simple  ele 
ment. 

Originally  he  was  a  printer,  but  early  abandoned 
that  vocation  for  another,  and  that  in  turn  for  an 
other,  and  so  on,  until  by  easy  gradations  he  had 
become,  as  the  old  saw  has  it,  "Jack  of  all  trades 
and  master  of  none." 

Among  his  many  accomplishments  he  is  a  mu 
sician  of  considerable  skill — plays  the  flute,  violin, 
and  guitar — all  quite  passably ;  is  a  great  reader, 
a  fine  conversationalist — which  accomplishment  I 
personally  vouch  for.  But  chief  of  all  his  accom 
plishments  is  that  of  writing  clever  imitations  of 
the  old  authors  and  poets.  These  productions  he 
prepares  with  great  care,  commits  them  to  mem 
ory,  and  is  ready  to  dispose  of  them  by  as  ingeni 
ous  a  method. 

And  yet,  although  he  be  a  vagabond  ;  although 
his  friends — such  as  they  are — are  first  to  call  him 
sot;  although  the  selfish  world  that  hurries  past 
may  jostle  him  unnoticed  from  the  path  ;  and  al 
though  he  styles  himself  a  "graceless  dog," — in 
all  candor,  and  in  justice  to  my  true  belief,  I  call 
him  a  remarkable  man. 


129 


A  NEST-EGG 


A  NEST-EGG 

BUT  a  few  miles  from  the  city  here,  and  on  the 
sloping  banks  of  the  stream  noted  more  for  its 
plenitude  of  "chubs"  and  "shiners"  than  the 
gamier  two-  and  four-pound  bass  for  which,  in 
season,  so  many  credulous  anglers  flock  and  lie  in 
wait,  stands  a  country  residence,  so  convenient  to 
the  stream,  and  so  inviting  in  its  pleasant  exterior 
and  comfortable  surroundings — barn,  dairy,  and 
spring-house — that  the  weary,  sunburnt,  and  dis 
heartened  fisherman,  out  from  the  dusty  town  for 
a  day  of  recreation,  is  often  wont  to  seek  its  hos 
pitality.  The  house  in  style  of  architecture  is 
something  of  a  departure  from  the  typical  farm 
house,  being  designed  and  fashioned  with  no  re 
gard  to  symmetry  or  proportion,  but  rather,  as  is 
suggested,  built  to  conform  to  the  matter-of-fact 
and  most  sensible  ideas  of  its  owner,  who,  if  it 
pleased  him,  would  have  small  windows  where 
large  ones  ought  to  be,  and  vice  versa,  whether 
they  balanced  properly  to  the  eye  or  not.  And 
chimneys — he  would  have  as  many  he  wanted,  and 
no  two  alike,  in  either  height  or  size.  And  if  he 

133 


A  NEST-EGG 

wanted  the  front  of  the  house  turned  from  all  pos 
sible  view,  as  though  abashed  at  any  chance  of 
public  scrutiny,  why,  that  was  his  affair  and  not 
the  public's;  and,  with  like  perverseness,  if  he 
chose  to  thrust  his  kitchen  under  the  public's  very 
nose,  what  should  the  generally  fagged-out,  half- 
famished  representative  of  that  dignified  public  do 
but  reel  in  his  dead  minnow,  shoulder  his  fishing- 
rod,  clamber  over  the  back  fence  of  the  old  farm 
house  and  inquire  within,  or  jog  back  to  the  city, 
inwardly  anathematizing  that  very  particular  local 
ity  or  the  whole  rural  district  in  general.  That  is 
just  the  way  that  farm-house  looked  to  the  writer 
of  this  sketch  one  week  ago — so  individual  it 
seemed — so  liberal,  and  yet  so  independent.  It 
wasn't  even  weather-boarded,  but,  instead,  was 
covered  smoothly  with  some  cement,  as  though 
the  plasterers  had  come  while  the  folks  were  visit 
ing,  and  so,  unable  to  get  at  the  interior,  had  just 
plastered  the  outside. 

I  am  more  than  glad  that  I  was  hungry  enough, 
and  weary  enough,  and  wise  enough  to  take  the 
house  at  its'  first  suggestion ;  for,  putting  away  my 
fishing-tackle  for  the  morning,  at  least,  I  went  up 
the  sloping  bank,  crossed  the  dusty  road,  and  con 
fidently  clambered  over  the  fence. 

Not  even  a  growling  dog  to  intimate  that  I  was 
trespassing.  All  was  open — gracious-looking — 

134 


A  NEST-EGG 

pastoral.  The  sward  beneath  my  feet  was  velvet- 
like  in  elasticity,  and  the  scarce  visible  path  I  fol 
lowed  through  it  led  promptly  to  the  open  kitchen 
door.  From  within  I  heard  a  woman  singing 
some  old  ballad  in  an  undertone,  while  at  the 
threshold  a  trim,  white-spurred  rooster  stood  poised 
on  one  foot,  curving  his  glossy  neck  and  cocking 
his  wattled  head  as  though  to  catch  the  meaning 
of  the  words.  I  paused.  It  was  a  scene  I  felt 
restrained  from  breaking  in  upon,  nor  would  I, 
but  for  the  sound  of  a  strong  male  voice  coming 
around  the  corner  of  the  house : 

"Sir.     Howdy!" 

Turning,  I  saw  a  rough-looking  but  kindly 
featured  man  of  sixty-five,  the  evident  owner  of 
the  place.' 

I  returned  his  salutation  with  some  confusion 
and  much  deference.  "I  must  really  beg  your 
pardon  for  this  intrusion,"  I  began,  "but  I  have 
been  tiring  myself  out  fishing,  and  your  home 
here  looked  so  pleasant — and  I  felt  so  thirsty — 
and—" 

"Want  a  drink,  I  reckon,"  said  the  old  man, 
turning  abruptly  toward  the  kitchen  door,  then 
pausing  as  suddenly,  with  a  backward  motion  of 

his  thumb "jest  foller  the  path  here  down  to 

the  little  brick — that's  the  spring — and  you'll  find 
'at  you've  come  to  the  right  place  fer  drinkin'- 

'35 


A  NEST-EGG 

worter !  Hold  on  a  minute  tel  I  git  you  a  tumbler 
— there're  nothin'  down  there  but  a  tin." 

"Then  don't  trouble  yourself  any  further,"  I 
said,  heartily,  "for  I'd  rather  drink  from  a  tin  cup 
than  a  goblet  of  pure  gold." 

"And  so'd  I,"  said  the  old  man,  reflectively, 
turning  mechanically,  and  following  me  down  the 
path.  "  'Druther  drink  out  of  a  tin — er  jest  a  fruit- 
can  with  the  top  knocked  off — er — er — er  a  gourd," 
he  added  in  a  zestful,  reminiscent  tone  of  voice, 
that  so  heightened  my  impatient  thirst  that  I 
reached  the  spring-house  fairly  in  a  run. 

"Well-sir!"  exclaimed  my  host,  in  evident  de 
light,  as  I  stood  dipping  my  nose  in  the  second 
cupful  of  the  cool,  revivifying  liquid,  and  peering 
in  a  congratulatory  kind  of  way  at  the  blurred  and 
rubicund  reflection  of  my  features  in  the  bottom 
of  the  cup,  "well-sir,  blame-don!  ef  it  don't  do  a 
feller  good  to  see  you  enjoyin'  of  it  thataway! 
But  don't  you  drink  too  much  o' the  worter! — 
'cause  there're  some  sweet  milk  over  there  in  one 
o'  them  crocks,  maybe;  and  ef  you'll  jest,  kindo' 
keerful-like,  lift  off  the  led  of  that  third  one,  say, 
over  there  to  yer  left,  and  dip  you  out  a  tinful  er 
two  o'  that,  w'y,  it'll  do  you  good  to  drink  it,  and 
it'll  do  me  good  to  see  you  at  it —  But  hold  up ! 
— hold  up!"  he  called,  abruptly,  as,  nowise  loath, 
I  bent  above  the  vessel  designated.  "Hold  yer 
136 


A  NEST-EGG 

bosses  fer  a  second!  Here's  Marthy ;  let  her  git 
it  fer  ye." 

If  I  was  at  first  surprised  and  confused,  meet 
ing  the  master  of  the  house,  I  was  wholly  startled 
and  chagrined  in  my  present  position  before  its 
mistress.  But  as  I  arose,  and  stammered,  in  my 
confusion,  some  incoherent  apology,  I  was  again 
reassured  and  put  at  greater  ease  by  the  compre 
hensive  and  forgiving  smile  the  woman  gave  me, 
as  I  yielded  her  my  place,  and,  with  lifted  hat, 
awaited  her  further  kindness. 

"I  came  just  in  time,  sir,"  she  said,  half  laugh 
ingly,  as  with  strong,  bare  arms  she  reached  across 
the  gurgling  trough  and  replaced  the  lid  that  I  had 
partially  removed. — "I  came  just  in  time,  I  see, 
to  prevent  father  from  having  you  dip  into  the 
'morning' s-milk,'  which,  of  course,  has  scarcely  a 
veil  of  cream  over  the  face  of  it  as  yet.  But  men, 
as  you  are  doubtless  willing  to  admit,"  she  went 
on  jocularly,  "don't  know  about  these  things. 
You  must  pardon  father,  as  much  for  his  well- 
meaning  ignorance  of  such  matters,  as  for  this 
cup  of  cream,  which  I  am  sure  you  will  better 
relish." 

She  arose,  still  smiling,  with  her  eyes  turned 
frankly  on  my  own.  And  I  must  be  excused  when 
I  confess  that  as  I  bowed  my  thanks,  taking  the 
proffered  cup  and  lifting  it  to  my  lips,  I  stared 

137 


A  NES.T-EGG 

with  an  uncommon  interest  and  pleasure  at  the 
donor's  face. 

She  was  a  woman  of  certainly  not  less  than  forty 
years  of  age.  But  the  figure,  and  the  rounded 
grace  and  fulness  of  it,  together  with  the  features 
and  the  eyes,  completed  as  fine  a  specimen  of 
physical  and  mental  health  as  ever  it  has  been  my 
fortune  to  meet;  there  was  something  so  full  of 
purpose  and  resolve — something  so  wholesome, 
too,  about  the  character — something  so  womanly — 
I  might  almost  say  manly,  and  would,  but  for  the 
petty  prejudice  maybe  occasioned  by  the  trivial 
fact  of  a  locket  having  dropped  from  her  bosom 
as  she  knelt;  and  that  trinket  still  dangles  in  my 
memory  even  as  it  then  dangled  and  dropped 
back  to  its  concealment  in  her  breast  as  she  arose. 
But  her  face,  by  no  means  handsome  in  the  com 
mon  meaning,  was  marked  with  a  breadth  and 
strength  of  outline  and  expression  that  approached 
the  heroic — a  face  that  once  seen  is  forever  fixed 
in  memory — a  personage  once  met  one  must  know 
more  of.  And  so  it  was,  that  an  hour  later,  as  I 
strolled  with  the  old  man  about  his  farm,  looking, 
to  all  intents,  with  the  profoundest  interest  at  his 
Devonshires,  Shorthorns,  Jerseys,  and  the  like,  I 
lured  from  him  something  of  an  outline  of  his 
daughter's  history. 

"There're  no  better  girl  'n  Marthy!"  he  said, 

138 


A  NEST-EGG 

mechanically  answering  some  ingenious  allusion 
to  her  worth.  "And  yit,"  he  went  on  reflectively, 
stooping  from  his  seat  in  the  barn  door  and  with 
his  open  jack-knife  picking  up  a  little  chip  with 
the  point  of  the  blade — "and  yit — you  wouldn't 
believe  it — but  Marthy  was  the  oldest  o'  three 
daughters,  and  bed — I  may  say — bed  more  ad 
vantages  o'  marryin' — and  yit,  as  I  was  jest  goin' 
to  say,  she's  the  very  one  'at  didn't  marry.  Hed 
every  advantage — Marthy  did.  W'y,  we  even  hed 
her  educated — her  mother  was  a-livin'  then — and 
we  was  well  enough  fixed  to  afford  the  educatin' 
of  her,  mother  allus  contended — and  we  was — be 
sides,  it  was  Marthy' s  notion,  too,  and  you  know 
how  women  is  thataway  when  they  git  their  head 
set.  So  we  sent  Marthy  down  to  Indianop'lus, 
and  got  her  books  and  putt  her  in  school  there, 
and  paid  fer  her  keepin'  and  ever' thing;  and  she 
jest — well,  you  may  say,  lived  there  stiddy  fer 
better'n  four  year.  O'  course  she'd  git  back 
ever'  once-an-a-while,  but  her  visits  was  allus, 
some-way-another,  onsatisfactory-like,  'cause,  you 
see,  Marthy  was  allus  my  favorite,  and  I'd  allus 
laughed  and  told  her  'at  the  other  girls  could  git 
married  ef  they  wanted,  but  she  was  goin'  to  be 
the  'nest-egg'  of  our  family,  and  'slong  as  I  lived 
I  wanted  her  at  home  with  me.  And  she'd  laugh 
and  contend  'at  she'd  as  lif  be  an  old  maid  as  not, 

139 


A  NEST-EGG 

and  never  expected  to  marry,  ner  didn't  want  to. 
But  she  had  me  sceart  onc't,  though !  Come  out 
from  the  city  one  time,  durin'  the  army,  with  a 
peart-lookin'  young  feller  in  blue  clothes  and  gilt 
straps  on  his  shoulders.  Young  lieutenant  he  was 
— name  o'  Morris.  Was  layin'  in  camp  there  in 
the  city  somers.  I  disremember  which  camp  it 
was  now  adzackly — but  anyway,  it  'peared  like 
he  had  plenty  o'  time  to  go  and  come,  fer  from 
that  time  on  he  kep*  on  a-comin' — ever'  time 
Marthy  'ud  come  home,  he'd  come,  too ;  and  I 
got  to  noticin'  'at  Marthy  come  home  a  good  'eal 
more'n  she  used  to  afore  Morris  first  brought  her. 
And  blame  ef  the  thing  didn't  git  to  worryin'  me! 
And  onc't  I  spoke  to  mother  about  it,  and  told 
her  ef  I  thought  the  feller  wanted  to  marry  Marthy 
I'd  jest  stop  his  comin'  right  then  and  there.  But 
mother  she  sorto'  smiled  and  said  somepin'  'bout 
men  a-never  seein'  through  nothin' ;  and  when  I 
ast  her  what  she  meant,  w'y,  she  ups  and  tells  me 
'at  Morris  didn't  keer  nothin'  fer  Marthy,  ner 
Marthy  fer  Morris,  and  then  went  on  to  tell  me 
that  Morris  was  kindo'  aidgin'  up  to'rds  Annie — 
she  was  next  to  Marthy,  you  know,  in  pint  of 
years  and  experience,  but  ever'body  allus  said  'at 
Annie  was  the  purtiest  one  o'  the  whole  three  of 
'em.  And  so  when  mother  told  me  'at  the  signs 
pinted  to'rds  Annie,  w'y,  of  course,  I  hedn't  no 
140 


A  NEST-EGG 

particular  objections  to  that,  'cause  Morris  was  of 
good  fambly  enough  it  turned  out,  and,  in  fact,  was 
as  stirrin'  a  young  feller  as  ever  I'd  want  fer  a 
son-in-law,  and  so  I  lied  nothin'  more  to  say — ner 
they  wasn't  no  occasion  to  say  nothin',  'cause  right 
along  about  then  I  begin  to  notice  'at  Marthy  quit 
comin'  home  so  much,  and  Morris  kep'  a-comin' 
more.  Tel  finally,  one  time  he  was  out  here  all 
by  hisself,  'long  about  dusk,  come  out  here  where 
I  was  feedin',  and  ast  me,  all  at  onc't,  and  in  a 
straight-for'ard  way,  ef  he  couldn't  marry  Annie; 
and,  some-way-another,  blame  ef  it  didn't  make 
me  as  happy  as  him  when  I  told  him  yes !  You 
see  that  thing  proved,  pine-blank,  'at  he  wasn't 
a-fishin'  round  fer  Marthy.  Well-sir,  as  luck  would 
hev  it,  Marthy  got  home  about  a  half-hour  later, 
and  I'll  give  you  my  word  I  was  never  so  glad  to 
see  the  girl  in  my  life !  It  was  foolish  in  me,  I 
reckon,  but  when  I  see  her  drivin'  up  the  lane — it 
was  purt'  nigh  dark  then,  but  I  could  see  her 
through  the  open  winder  from  where  I  was  settin' 
at  the  supper-table,  and  so  I  jest  quietly  ex 
cused  myself,  p'lite-like,  as  a  feller  will,  you 
know,  when  they's  comp'ny  round,  and  I  slipped 
off  and  met  her  jest  as  she  was  about  to  git  out  to 
open  the  barn  gate.  'Hold  up,  Marthy,'  says  I; 
'set  right  where  you  air;  I'll  open  the  gate  fer  you, 


141 


A  NEST-EGO 

and  I'll  do  anything  else  fer  you  in  the  world  'at 
you  want  me  to!' 

"  'W'y,  what's  pleased  you  so?'  she  says  laugh- 
in',  as  she  druv  through  slow-like  and  a-ticklin' 
my  nose  with  the  cracker  of  the  buggy-whip. — 
'What's  pleased  you?' 

"  'Guess,'  says  I,  jerkin'  the  gate  to,  and  turn- 
in'  to  lift  her  out. 

"  'The  new  peanner's  come?'  says  she,  eager- 
like. 

.    "  'Yer  new  peanner's  come,'  says  I,  'but  that's 
not  it.' 

"  'Strawberries  fer  supper?'  says  she. 

"'Strawberries  fer  supper,'  says  I;  'but  that 
ain't  it.' 

"Jest  then  Morris's  hoss  wrhinnied  in  the  barn, 
and  she  glanced  up  quick  and  smilin'  and  says, 
'Somebody  come  to  see  somebody?' 

"  'You're  a-gittin'  warm,'  says  I. 

"  'Somebody  come  to  see  me?  she  says,  anx- 
ious-like. 

"  'No,'  says  I,  'and  I'm  glad  of  it — fer  this  one 
'at's  come  wants  to  git  married,  and  o'  course  I 
wouldn't  harber  in  my  house  no  young  feller  'at 
was  a-layin'  round  fer  a  chance  to  steal  away  the 
"Nest-egg,"  '  says  I,  laughin'. 

"Marthy  had  riz  up  in  the  buggy  by  this  time, 
but  as  I  helt  up  my  hands  to  her,  she  sorto'  drawed 
142 


A  NEST-EGG 

back  a  minute,  and  says,  all  serious-like  and  kindo' 
vvhisperin' : 

"  'Is  it  Annie?' 

"I  nodded.  'Yes,'  says  I,  'and  what's  more, 
I've  give  my  consent,  and  mother's  give  hern — 
the  thing's  all  settled.  Come,  jump  out  and  run 
in  and  be  happy  with  the  rest  of  us ! '  and  I  helt 
out  my  hands  ag'in,  but  she  didn't  'pear  to  take 
no  heed.  She  was  kindo'  pale,  too,  I  thought, 
and  swallered  a  time  er  two  like  as  ef  she  couldn't 
speak  plain. 

"  'Who  is  the  man?'  she  ast. 

"  'Who — who's  the  man,'  I  says,  a-gittin'  kindo' 
out  o'  patience  with  the  girl. — 'W'y,  you  know 
who  it  is,  o'  course. — It's  Morris,'  says  I.  'Come, 
jump  down!  Don't  you  see  I'm  waitin'  ferye?' 

"  'Then  take  me,'  she  says;  and  blame-don!  ef 
the  girl  didn't  keel  right  over  in  my  arms  as  limber 
as  a  rag!  Clean  fainted  away!  Honest!  Jest 
the  excitement,  I  reckon,  o'  breakin'  it  to  her  so 
suddent-like — 'cause  she  liked  Annie,  I've  some 
times  thought,  better'n  even  she  did  her  own 
mother.  Didn't  go  half  so  hard  with  her  when 
her  other  sister  married.  Yes-sir!"  said  the  old 
man,  by  way  of  sweeping  conclusion,  as  he  rose 
to  his  feet — "Marthy's  the  on'y  one  of  'em  'at 
never  married — both  the  others  is  gone — Morris 
went  all  through  the  army  and  got  back  safe  and 

H3 


A  NEST-EGG 

sound — 's  livin'  in  Idyho,  and  doin'  fust-rate. 
Sends  me  a  letter  ever'  now  and  then.  Got  three 
little  chunks  o'  grandchildren  out  there,  and  I' 
never  laid  eyes  on  one  of  'em.  You  see,  I'm 
a-gittin'  to  be  quite  a  middle-aged  man — in  fact,  a 
very  middle-aged  man,  you  might  say.  Sence 
mother  died,  which  has  be'n — lem-me-see — moth 
er's  be'n  dead  somers  in  the  neighberhood  o'  ten 
year. — Sence  mother  died  I've  be'n  a-gittin'  more 
and  more  o'  Marthy's  notion — that  is, — you 
couldn't  ever  hire  me  to  marry  nobody!  and  them 
has  allus  be'n  and  still  is  the  'Nest-egg's'  views! 
Listen!  That's  her  a-callin'  fer  us  now.  You 
must  sorto'  overlook  the  freedom,  but  I  told  Mar- 
thy  you'd  promised  to  take  dinner  with  us  to-day, 
and  it  'ud  never  do  to  disappint  her  now.  Come 
on."  And  ah!  it  would  have  made  the  soul  of 
you  either  rapturously  glad  or  madly  envious  to  see 
how  meekly  I  consented. 

I  am  always  thinking  that  I  never  tasted  coffee 
till  that  day;  I  am  always  thinking  of  the  crisp 
and  steaming  rolls,  ored  over  with  the  molten  gold 
that  hinted  of  the  clover-fields,  and  the  bees  that 
had  not  yet  permitted  the  honey  of  the  bloom  and 
the  white  blood  of  the  stalk  to  be  divorced  ;  I  am 
always  thinking  that  the  young  and  tender  pullet 
we  happy  three  discussed  was  a  near  and  dear  rela- 


144 


A  NEST-EGG 


tive  of  the  gay  patrician  rooster  that  I  first  caught 
peering  so  inquisitively  in  at  the  kitchen  door ;  and 
I  am  always — always  thinking  of  "The  Nest-egg." 


'45 


TALE  OF  A  SPIDER 


TALE  OF  A  SPIDER 

FIRST — I  want  it  most  distinctly  understood  that 
I  am  superstitious,  notwithstanding  the  best  half 
of  my  life,  up  to  the  very  present,  has  been  spent 
in  the  emphatic  denial  of  that  fact.  And  I  am 
painfully  aware  that  this  assertion  at  so  late  a  date 
can  but  place  my  former  character  in  a  most  un 
enviable  light;  yet  for  reasons  you  will  never 
know,  I  have,  with  all  due  deliberation,  deter 
mined  to  hold  the  truth  up  stark  and  naked  to  the 
world,  with  the  just  acknowledgment,  shorn  of 
all  attempt  at  palliation  or  excuse,  that  for  the 
best  half  of  my  life  I  have  been  simply  a  coward 
and  a  liar. 

Second — From  a  careful  and  impartial  study  of 
my  fellow-beings,  I  have  arrived  at  the  settled 
conviction  that  nine  men  of  every  ten  are  just  as 
superstitious  as  myself;  yet,  with  the  difference, 
that,  for  reasons  /  know,  they  refuse  to  openly 
acknowledge  it,  many  of  them  dodging  the  admis 
sion  even  within  their  own  ever  curious  and  ques 
tioning  minds.  V  . 

Third — Most  firmly  fixed  in  this  belief  and  in- 
149 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

tuitively  certain  of  at  least  the  inner  confidence 
and  sympathy  of  a  grand  majority  of  those  who 
read,  I  throw  aside  all  personal  considerations, 
defy  all  ridicule — all  reason,  if  you  like — for  the 
purpose  wholly  to  devote  myself  to  the  narration 
of  an  actual  experience  that  for  three  long  weeks 
has  been  occurring  with  me  nightly  in  this  very 
room.  You  should  hear  me  laugh  about  it  in  the 
daytime !  Oh,  I  snap  my  fingers  then,  and  whistle 
quite  as  carelessly  and  scornfully  as  you  doubtless 
would;  but  at  night — at  night — and  it's  night  now 
— I  grow  very,  very  serious  somehow,  and  put  all 
raillery  aside,  and  all  in  vain  here  argue  by  the 
hour  that  it's  nothing  in  the  world  but  the  baleful 
imaginings  of  a  feverish  mind,  and  the  convulsive 
writhings  of  a  dyspeptic  fancy.  But  enough!  — 
Even  forced  to  admit  that  I'm  a  fool,  I  will  tell 
my  story. 

Although  by  no  means  of  a  morbid  or  misan 
thropic  disposition,  the  greater  portion  of  my  time 
I  occupy  in  strict  seclusion,  here  at  my  desk — for 
only  when  alone  can  I  conscientiously  indulge  cer 
tain  propensities  of  thinking  aloud,  talking  to  my 
self,  leaping  from  my  chair  occasionally  to  dance 
a  new  thought  round  the  room,  or  take  it  in  my 
arms,  and  hug  and  hold  and  love  it  as  I  would  a 
great,  fat,  laughing  baby  with  a  bunch  of  jingling 
keys. 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

Then  there  are  times,  too,  when  worn  with 
work,  and  I  find  my  pen  dabbling  by  the  wayside 
in  sluggish  blots  of  ink,  that  I  delight  to  take  up 
the  old  guitar  which  leans  here  in  the  corner,  and 
twang  among  the  waltzes  that  I  used  to  know,  or 
lift  a  most  unlovely  voice  in  half-forgotten  songs 
whose  withered  notes  of  melody  fall  on  me  like 
dead  leaves,  but  whose  crisp  rustling  still  has 
power  to  waken  from  "the  dusty  crypt  of  dark 
ened  forms  and  faces"  the  glad  convivial  spirits 
that  once  thronged  about  me  in  the  wayward  past, 
and  made  my  young  life  one  long  peal  of  empty 
merriment.  Someway,  I've  lost  the  knack  of 
wholesome  laughter  now,  and  for  this  reason, 
maybe,  I  so  often  find  my  fingers  tangled  in  the 
strings  of  my  guitar ;  for,  after  all,  there  is  an  in 
definable  something  in  the  tone  of  a  guitar  that  is 
not  all  of  earth.  I  have  often  fancied  that  de 
parted  friends  came  back  to  hide  themselves  away 
in  this  old  husk  of  song  that  we  might  pluck  them 
forth  to  live  again  in  quavering  tones  of  tender 
ness  and  love  and  minor  voices  of  remembrance 
that  coax  us  on  to  heaven.  Pardon  my  vagaries. — 
I'm  practical  enough  at  times;  at  times  I  fail. 
But  I  must  be  clear  to-night;  I  must  be,  and  I 
will. 

This  night  three  weeks  ago  I  had  worked  late, 
though  on  a  task  involving  nothing  that  could  pos- 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

sibly  have  warped  my  mind  to  an  unnatural  state, 
other  than  that  of  peculiar  vvakef ulness ;  for  al 
though  physically  needful  of  rest,  I  felt  that  it  was 
useless  to  retire ;  and  so  I  wheeled  my  sofa  in  a 
cosey  position  near  the  stove,  lighted  a  cigar  (my 
chum  Hays  had  left  me  four  hours  previous),  and 
flinging  myself  down  in  languid  pose  best  suiting 
the  requirements  of  an  aimless  reverie,  I  resigned 
all  serious  complexities  of  thought  and  was  wholly 
comfortable. 

The  silence  of  the  night  without  was  deep. 
Not  a  footstep  in  the  street  below,  and  not  a  sound 
of  any  living  earthly  thing  fell  on  the  hearing, 
though  that  sense  was  whetted  to  such  acuteness  I 
could  plainly  hear  the  ticking  of  a  clock  some 
where  across  the  street. 

All  things  about  the  room  were  in  their  usual 
order.  My  letters  on  the  desk  were  folded  as  I 
answered  them,  and  filed  away;  my  books  were 
ranged  in  order,  and  my  manuscripts  tucked  out 
of  sight  and  mind,  and  no  scrap  of  paper  to  re 
mind  me  of  my  never-ended  work,  save  the  blank 
sheet  that  always  lies  in  readiness  for  me  to  pounce 
upon  with  any  vagrant  thought  that  comes  along, 
and  close  beside  it  the  open  inkstand  and  the  idle 
pen. 

I  had  reclined  thus  in  utter  passiveness  of 
mind  for  half  an  hour,  perhaps,  when  sud- 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

denly  I  heard,  or  thought  I  heard,  below  me 
in  the  street,  the  sound  of  some  stringed  instru 
ment.  I  rose  up  oh  my  elbow  and  listened. 
Some  serenader,  I  guessed.  Yes,  I  could  hear  it 
faintly,  but  so  far  away  it  seemed,  and  indistinct, 
I  was  uncertain.  I  arose,  went  to  the  window, 
raised  it  and  leaned  out;  but  as  the  sound  grew 
fainter  and  failed  entirely,  I  closed  the  window 
and  sat  down  again;  but  even  as  I  did  so  the 
mysterious  tones  fell  on  my  hearing  plainer  than 
before.  I  listened  closely,  and  though  little  more 
than  a  ghost  of  sound,  I  still  could  hear,  and 
quite  audibly  distinguish,  the  faint  repeated 
twanging  of  the  six  open  strings  of  a  guitar — so 
plainly,  indeed,  that  I  instinctively  recognized  the 
irritating  fact  that  both  the  "E"  and  "D"  strings 
were  slightly  out  of  tune.  I  turned  with  some 
strange  impulse  to  my  own  instrument,  and  I  must 
leave  the  reader  to  imagine  the  cold  thrill  of  sur 
prise  and  fear  that  crept  over  me  as  the  startling 
conviction  slowly  dawned  upon  my  mind  that  the 
sounds  came  from  that  unlooked-for  quarter.  The 
guitar  was  leaning  in  its  old  position  in  the  corner, 
the  face  turned  to  the  wall,  and  although  I  confess 
it  with  reluctance,  full  five  minutes  elapsed  before 
I  found  sufficient  courage  to  approach  and  pick  it 
up ;  then  I  came  near  dropping  it  in  abject  terror 
as  a  great,  fat,  blowzy  spider  ran  across  my  hand 

153 


TALK    OF    A    SPIDER 

and  went  scampering  up  the  wall.  What  do  you 
think  of  spiders,  anyhow?  You  say  "Woohl" 
I  say  you  don't  know  anything  about  spiders. 

I  examined  first  the  wall  to  see  if  there  might 
not  be  some  natural  cause  for  the  mysterious 
sounds — some  open  crevice  for  the  wind,  some 
loosened  and  vibrating  edge  of  paper,  or  perhaps 
a  bristle  protruding  from  the  plaster — but  I  found 
no  evidence  that  could  in  any  way  afford  an  an 
swer  to  the  perplexing  query.  An  old  umbrella 
and  a  broom  stood  in  the  corner,  but  in  neither  of 
these  inanimate  objects  could  I  find  the  vaguest 
explanation  of  the  problem  that  so  wholly  and  en 
tirely  possessed  me. 

I  could  not  have  been  mistaken.  It  was  no  trick 
of  fancy — no  hallucination.  I  had  not  only  list 
ened  to  the  sounds  repeated,  over  and  over,  a 
dozen  times  at  least,  but  I  had  recognized  and 
measured  the  respective  values  of  the  tones,  and 
as  I  turned,  half  in  awe,  took  up  the  instrument 
and  lightly  swept  the  strings,  the  positive  proof  for 
the  conviction  jarred  as  discordantly  upon  my  fancy 
as  upon  my  ears. — The  two  strings,  "E"  and  "D," 
were  out  of  tune. 

I  will  no  longer  attempt  the  detail  of  my  per 
turbed  state  of  curiosity  and  the  almost  dazed  con 
dition  of  my  mind ;  such  an  effort  would  at  best 
be  vain.  But  I  sat  down,  doggedly,  at  last;  and 

'54 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

in  a  spirit  of  indifference  the  most  defiant  I  could 
possibly  assume,  I  ran  the  guitar  up  to  a  keen,  ex 
ultant  key,  and  dashed  off  into  a  quickstep  that 
made  the  dumb  old  echoes  of  the  room  leap  up 
and  laugh  with  melody.  I  was  determined  in  my 
own  mind  to  stave  off  the  most  unwholesome  in 
fluence  that  seemed  settling  fog-like  over  me ;  and 
as  the  sharp  twang  of  the  strings  rang  out  upon 
the  night,  and  the  rich  vibrating  chords  welled  up 
and  overflowed  the  silence  like  a  flood,  the  em 
bers  of  old-time  enthusiasm  kindled  in  my  heart 
and  flamed  up  in  a  warmth  of  real  delight.  Sud 
denly,  in  the  midst  of  this  rapturous  outburst,  as 
with  lifted  face  I  stared  ceilingward,  my  eyes  again 
fell  on  that  horrid  spider,  madly  capering  about 
the  wall  in  a  little  circumference  of  a  dozen  inches, 
perhaps,  wheeling  and  whirling  up  and  down,  and 
round  and  round  again,  as  though  laboring  under 
some  wild,  jubilant  excitement. 

I  played  on  mechanically  for  a  moment,  my  eyes 
riveted  upon  the  grotesque  antics  of  the  insect, 
feeling  insunctively  that  the  music  was  producing 
this  singular  effect  upon  it.  I  was  right;  for,  as 
I  gradually  paused,  the  gyrations  of  the  insect  as 
sumed  a  milder  phase,  and  as  I  ceased  entirely  the 
great,  bloated  thing  ran  far  out  overhead  and 
dropped  suddenly  a  yard  below  the  ceiling,  and, 
pendent  by  its  unseen  thread,  hung  sprawled  in 

'55 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

the  empty  air  above  my  face,  so  near  I  could  have 
touched  it  with  the  lifted  instrument.  And  then, 
even  as  I  shrank  back  fearfully,  a  new  line  of 
speculation  was  suggested  to  my  mind:  I  arose 
abruptly,  leaned  the  guitar  back  in  the  corner, 
took  up  a  book,  and  sat  down  at  the  desk,  leaving 
the  silence  of  the  room  intensified  till  in  my  nerv 
ous  state  of  mind  I  almost  fancied  I  could  hear 
that  spider  whispering  to  itself,  as  above  the  open 
pages  of  the  book  I  watched  the  space  between  it 
and  the  ceiling  slowly  widening,  till  at  last  the 
ugly  insect  dropped  and  disappeared  behind  the 
sofa. 

I  had  not  long  to  wait;  nor  was  my  curious 
mind  placed  any  more  at  ease,  when,  at  last,  faint 
and  far-off  sounding  as  at  first,  I  heard  the  eerie 
twanging  of  the  guitar — though  this  time  I  could 
with  some  triumphant  pleasure  note  the  fact  that 
the  instrument  was  in  perfect  tune.  But  to  thor 
oughly  assure  myself  that  I  could  in  no  way  be 
mistaken  as  to  the  mysterious  cause,  I  arose  and 
crept  cautiously  across  the  carpet  until  within  easy 
reach  of  the  guitar.  I  paused  again  to  listen  and 
convince  myself  beyond  all  doubt  that  the  sounds 
were  there  produced.  There  could  possibly  be 
no  mistake  about  it.  Then  suddenly  I  caught  and 
whirled  the  instrument  around,  and  as  I  did  so  the 


156 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

spider  darted  from  the  keyboard  near  the  top, 
leaped  to  the  broom-handle,  and  fled  up  the  wall. 

I  tried  no  more  experiments  that  night,  or  rather 
morning — for  it  must  have  been  three  o'clock  as  I 
turned  wearily  away  from  the  exasperating  con 
templation  of  the  strange  subject,  turned  down  the 
lamp,  then  turned  it  up  again,  huddled  myself  into 
a  shivering  heap  upon  the  sofa,  and  fell  into  an 
uneasy  sleep,  in  which  I  dreamed  that  /  was  a 
spider — of  Brobdingnagian  proportions,  and  lived 
on  men  and  women  instead  of  flies,  and  had  a 
web  like  a  monster  hammock,  in  which  I  swung 
myself  out  over  the  streets  at  night  and  fished  up 
my  prey  with  a  hook  and  line — thought  I  caught 
more  poets  than  anything  else,  and  was  just  nib 
bling  warily  at  my  own  bait,  when  the  line  was 
suddenly  withdrawn,  the  hook  catching  me  in  the 
cheek,  tearing  out  and  letting  me  drop  back  with 
a  sullen  plunge  into  the  great  gulf  of  the  night. 
And  as  I  found  myself,  with  wildly  staring  eyes, 
sitting  bolt  upright  on  the  sofa,  I  saw  the  spider, 
just  above  my  desk,  lifted  and  flung  upward  by 
his  magic  line  and  thrown  among  the  dusky  shad 
ows  of  the  ceiling. 

"Hays,"  said  I  to  my  chum,  in  the  early  morn 
ing,  as  he  came  in  upon  me,  sitting  at  my  desk, 
and  gazing  abstractedly  at  an  incoherent  scrawl  of 


'57 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

ink  upon  the  scrap  of  paper  lying  before  me — 
"Hays,"  said  I,  "what's  your  opinion  of  spiders?" 

"What's  my  opinion  of  spiders?"  he  queried, 
staring  at  me  curiously. 

"What's  your  opinion  of  spiders?"  I  repeated 
with  my  first  inflection — for  Hays  is  a  young  man 
in  the  medical  profession,  and  likes  point,  fact, 
and  brevity.  "What  I  mean  is  this,"  I  continued: 
"isn't  it  generally  conceded  that  the  spider  is  en 
dowed  with  a  higher  order  of  intelligence  than  in 
sects  commonly?" 

"I  believe  so,"  he  replied,  with  the  same  curi 
ous  air,  watching  me  narrowly;  "I  have  a  vague 
recollection  of  some  incident  illustrative  of  that 
theory  in  Goldsmith's  'Animated  Nature,'  or  some 
equally  veracious  chronicle,"  with  suggestive  em 
phasis  on  the  word  "veracious."  "Why  do  you 
ask?"  And,  although  half  assured  I  would  be 
sneered  at  for  my  pains,  I  went  into  a  minute  re- 
countal  of  my  strange  experience  of  the  night, 
winding  up  in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  doubt 
less  intensified  by  the  blandly  smiling  features  of 
my  auditor,  who  made  no  interruption  whatever, 
and  only  looked  at  me  at  the  conclusion  of  the 
dream  with  gratuitous  -compassion  and  concern. 
"Well!"  said  I,  uneasily,  taking  an  impatient 
turn  or  two  across  the  room.  .  .  .  "Well!"  I  re 
peated  pausing  abruptly  and  glaring  at  the  shrugged 
158 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

shoulders  of  my  stoical  companion,  "why  don't 
you  say  something?" 

"Nothing  to  say,  I  suppose,"  he  answered, 
turning  on  me  with  absolute  severity. — "You  never 
listen  to  advice.  Two  months  ago  I  told  you  to 
quit  this  night  business — it  would  wreck  you  phys 
ically,  mentally,  every  way.  Why,  look  at  you!" 
he  continued  in  pitiless  reproof,  as  I  flew  off  on 
another  nervous  trip  around  the  room.  "Look  at 
you  !  a  perfect  crate  of  bones — no  'get-up'  in  your 
walk — no  color  in  your  face — no  appetite — no  any 
thing  but  a  wisp  of  shattered  nerves,  and  a  pair 
of  howling-hungry  eyes  that  do  nothing  else  but 
stare." 

"It  wouldn't  seem  that  you  did  have  much  to 
say,  upon  the  point,  at  least,"  I  interrupted. 
"Never  mind  my  physical  condition  ;  what  do  you 
think  of  my  spider?" 

"What  do  I  think  of  your  spider!"  he  repeated 
contemptuously;  "why,  I  think  it's  a  little  the 
thinnest  piece  of  twaddle  I  ever  listened  to ! — And 
I  think,  further—" 

"Hold  on,  now!"  I  exclaimed,  a  trifle  warmed, 
but  smiling;  "I  knew  you'd  have  to  sweat  awhile 
over  that:  but  hold  on — hold  on!  I  have  only 
told  you  the  minor  facts  of  the  strange  occurrence ; 
the  most  startling  and  irrefutable  portion  yet  re 
mains.  Now,  listen !  What  I  have  already  told 

'59 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

you  I  pledge  you  on  my  honor  is  pure  truth.  I 
can  offer  nothing  but  my  word  for  that.  But  I 
will  close  now — don't  interrupt  me,  if  you  please: 
As  I  awakened  from  that  dream,  I  saw  that  spider 
jerked  from  above  the  desk  here — just  as  a  small 
boy  might  whip  up  a  fish-line — jerked  by  his  own 
thread,  of  course. — Well,  and  I  got  up  at  once — 
came  to  the  desk  like  this,  feeling  instinctively 
that  that  infernal  spider  had  some  object  in  lower 
ing  itself  among  my  letters  ;  and  I  found  this 
scrap  of  paper,  which  I'll  swear  I  left  last  night 
without  one  blot  or  line  of  ink  or  pencil  on  it. — I 
found  this  scrap  of  paper  with  this  zigzag  line — 
which  you  can  see  was  never  made  with  human 
hand — scrawled  across  it,  and  the  ink  was  yet  wet 
when  I  picked  it  up.  Now,  what  do  you  say?" 

He  took  the  scrap  of  paper  in  his  hand  half 
curiously,  and  then,  as  though  ashamed  of  having 
betrayed  so  great  a  weakness,  threw  it  back  upon 
the  desk  with  scarce  a  look. 

"What  do  you  say?"  I  repeated,  in  a  tone  of 
triumph. 

"Well,"  he  replied,  "it  is  barely  possible  you 
did  see  a  spider  in  this  last  instance,  and  I  must 
confess  that  it  is  a  much  easier  matter  for  me  to 
imagine  a  spider  dropping  by  accident  into  your 
inkstand  and  leaving  the  trail  of  his  salvation 
across  your  writing-paper,  than  it  is  for  me  to 
1 60 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

fancy  the  fantastic  insect  plucking  the  strings  of 
your  guitar.  In  fact,  the  first  part  of  your  story 
won't  do  at  all.  I  don't  mean  to  intimate  that 
your  veracity  is  defective — not  at  all.  But  I  do 
mean  that  you  have  overworked  yourself  of  late, 
and  that  your  brain  needs  rest. 

"But,"  said  I,  pushing  the  scrap  of  paper  to 
ward  him  again,  "you  don't  seem  to  recognize  the 
fact  that  that  ugly  scrawl  of  ink  means  something. 
Look  at  it  carefully;  it's  writing." 

He  again  took  the  paper  in  his  hand,  but  this 
time  without  a  glance,  and  ere  I  could  prevent  him 
he  had  torn  it  in  a  half-dozen  pieces  and  flung  it 
on  the  floor. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  I  cried,  resentfully, 
springing  forward. 

"Why,  I  mean  that  you're  a  babbling  idiot,"  he 
answered,  in  a  tone  half  anger,  half  alarm;  "and 
if  you  won't  look  after  your  own  condition  I'll  do 
it  for  you,  and  in  spite  of  you!  You  must  quit 
this  work — quit  this  room — quit  everything,  and 
come  with  me  out  in  the  fresh  air  for  a  while,  or 
you'll  die;  that's  what  I  mean!" 

Although  he  spoke  with  almost  savage  vehem 
ence,  I  recognized,  of  course,  the  real  promptings 
of  his  action,  and  smiled  softly  to  myself  as  I 
gathered  up  the  scattered  scraps  of  paper  from  the 
carpet. 

161 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

"Oh,  we'll  not  quarrel,"  said  I,  seating  myself 
patiently  at  the  desk,  and  dipping  my  finger  in  the 
paste-cup — "we'll  not  quarrel  about  a  little  thing 
like  this;  only  if  you'll  just  wait  a  minute  I'll 
show  you  that  it  does  mean  something." 

"There!"  said  I,  good-naturedly,  when  I  had 
deftly  joined  the  fragments  in  their  proper  places 
on  a  base  of  legal  cap;  "now  you  can  read 
it;  but  don't  tear  it  again,  please."  I  think 
I  was  very  white  when  I  said  that,  for  my  com 
panion  took  the  paper  in  his  hand  with  at  least 
a  show  of  interest,  and  looked  at  it  long  and 
curiously. 

"Well,  what  is  it?"  he  asked,  laying  it  back 
upon  the  desk  before  me :  '  'I  am  really  very  soriy , 
but  I  am  forced  to  acknowledge  that  I  fail  to  find 
anything  exactly  tangible  in  it." 

"Look,"  said  I;  "You  see  this  capital  that 
begins  the  line;  the  first  letter? — It's  a  'Y,'  isn't 
it?" 

"Yes;  it  looks  a  little  like  a  'Y'— or  a  <G.'  " 

"No;  it's  a  'Y,'  "said  I,  "and  there's  no  more 
doubt  about  it  than  that  this  next  one  is  an  'e.'  " 

"Well—" 

"Well,  this  next  letter  is  an  'S' — an  old-fash 
ioned  'S,'  but  it's  an  'S'  all  the  same,  and  you 
can't  make  anything  else  out  of  it;  I've  tried  it, 
and  it  can't  be  done." 

162 


TALE    OF   A    SPIDER 

"Well,  go  on." 

"This  is  a  'c,'  "  I  continued. 

"Go  on;  call  it  anything  you  like." 

"No;  but  I  want  you  to  be  thoroughly  satis 
fied."  LL3 

"Oh,  do  you?     Well,  it's  a  'c,'  then;  go  on." 

"And  this  is  an  'h.'  " 

"Go  on." 

"And  this  is  an  'o' ;  you  know  that!" 

"Yes;   know  it  by  the  hole  in  it." 

"Don't  get  funny.     And  this  is  an  '!.'  " 

"That's  an  '!.'  " 

"This  is  an  'a.'  " 

"Close  observer!" 

"And  that's  an  <r'— and  that's  all." 

"Well,  you've  got  it  all  down  to  suit  you ;  now, 
what  does  it  spell?" 

"What  does  it  spell?  Why,  can't  you  read?" 
I  exclaimed,  flourishing  the  scrap  triumphantly 
before  his  eyes.  "It  spells  'Ye  Scholar!' — why, 
I  could  read  it  across  the  room!" 

"Yes,  or  across  the  street,"  he  answered  caus 
tically.  "But  come  now!"  he  continued,  seri 
ously,  "throw  it  aside  for  the  present  at  least,  and 
let's  go  out  in  the  sunshine  for  a  while.  Here, 
light  a  cigar,  and  come  along";  and  he  moved 
toward  the  door. 

"No,"  said  I,  turning  to  the  mysterious  scrawl, 
163 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

"I  shall  hound  this  thing  down  while  the  inspira 
tion's  on  me." 

"Inspiration? — Bah!"  The  door  slammed,  but 
I  never  turned  my  head. 

I  had  sat  thus  in  dead  silence  for  ten  minutes, 
when  suddenly  I  heard  a  quick,  impatient  move 
ment  at  my  back,  and  then  the  sharp,  impetuous 
words — "In  God's  name!  quit  biting  your  nails 
like  that!  Don't  you  know  it's  an  indication  of 
madness!" 

I  think  I  need  not  enter  into  any  explanation  as 
to  the  reason  which,  from  that  moment,  determined 
me  upon  a  course  that  could  afford  no  further  con 
flict  of  opinion  other  than  that  already  going  on 
within  my  own  mind.  That  of  itself  furnished 
all  exasperating  controversy  that  I  felt  was  well 
for  my  indulgence.  But  in  one  sense  I  was  grate 
ful  for  the  pointed  suggestion  of  my  friend  regard 
ing  the  questionable  status  of  my  mental  faculties, 
for  by  it  I  was  made  most  keenly  alive  to  that 
peculiar  sense  of  duty  that  made  me  look  upon 
myself  and  question  every  individual  act,  entirely 
separated  from  my  own  personality;  in  fact,  to 
look  upon  myself,  as  I  did,  clearly  and  distinctly 
defined  in  the  light  of  a  very  suspicious  and  a  very 
dangerous  character,  whose  sole  intent  and  pur 
pose  was  to  play  and  practise  upon  me  all  un 
looked-for  and  undreamed-of  deceptions,  and 
164 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

which,  to  successfully  combat,  must  needs  require 
the  most  rigid  and  unwavering  strength  of  reason. 

In  further  justice  to  my  honesty  in  this  resolve, 
I  will  say  that  I  at  once  began  the  exercise  of  sys 
tematic  habits.  Although  by  no  means  pleasant, 
I  took  long  rambles  in  the  country ;  ate  regularly 
of  wholesome  food,  regained  my  appetite,  and  re 
tired  at  night  at  seasonable  hours.  I  will  not  say 
that  sleep  came  sooner  to  my  eyes  by  reason  of 
the  change,  but  I  wooed  sleep,  anyway — let  this 
suffice.  I  threw  smoking  entirely  aside — not  a 
hard  trial  for  me  by  any  means,  although  an  occa 
sional  cigar  is  a  great  pleasure ;  but  I  threw  it 
aside.  Did  not  study  so  intensely  as  had  been 
my  wont;  read  but  little,  and  wrote  less — even 
neglecting  my  letters.  Yet,  with  all  this  revolu 
tion  of  reform,  I  am  left  to  confess  that  I  never  for 
one  waking  moment  forgot  the  mystic  legend,  "Ye 
Scholar,"  or  its  equally  incomprehensible  author; 
and  how  could  I  ? 

Since  the  first  discovery  of  the  strange  insect 
and  its  musical  proclivities,  but  three  evenings 
only  have  passed  that  I  have  not  been  favored  with 
its  most  extraordinary  performances  on  the  guitar. 
In  this  way  has  its  presence  been  usually  made 
known.  And  noting  carefully,  as  I  have  done, 
the  peculiar  times  and  conditions  of  its  coming, 
together  with  such  other  suggestions  as  the  sur- 
165 


TALE   OF    A    SPIDER 

roundings  have  afforded  me,  I  have  been  led  to 
believe  that  the  spider  reasoned  as  a  man  would 
reason :  In  no  instance  yet  has  it  ever  touched  the 
instrument  when  I  sat  busy  at  my  desk ;  and  only 
when  my  pen  was  idle  in  my  hand,  or  I  had  turned 
wearily  away  to  pace  about  the  room,  has  it  ever 
exhibited  any  inclination  whatever  to  occupy  my 
attention.  This  curious  fact  interpreted  itself  at 
last  in  the  rather  startling  proposition  that  it  was 
simply  an  indication  on  the  part  of  the  insect  that 
it  desired  me  to  favor  it  with  music,  since  my  time 
was  not  better  occupied. — Virtually  this  is  what  it 
did  mean ;  I  kno^v  it !  I  would  know  and  appre 
ciate  now  any  want  the  insect  might  choose  to  ex 
press;  only  at  first  I  was  very  dull,  as  one  would 
be  naturally.  And  I  noticed,  too,  that  when  I  first 
responded  to  this  summons  the  spider  would  leap 
from  the  guitar  to  the  wall  with  every  evidence  of 
pleasure,  and  glide  back  to  its  old  position  near 
the  ceiling,  indulging  the  wildest  tokens  of  glee 
and  approval  throughout  my  performances.  And 
many  times  I  have  marched  off  round  and  round 
the  room  simply  thrumming  the  time,  the  spider 
following  along  the  upper  margin  of  the  wall  with 
the  most  fantastic  caperings  of  joy. 

Other  experiments  followed,  too  numerous  and 
too  foolish  for  recountal  here,  but  each,  in  its  way, 
sufficient   to    more    conclusively  establish    in    my 
166 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

mind  the  belief  that  the  hideous  little  monster  was 
endowed  with  an  intelligence  as  wise  and  subtle  in 
its  workings  as  was  within  the  power  of  my  own 
to  recognize — even  greater, — for  gradually,  as  we 
became  more  accustomed  to  each  other,  the  ugly 
insect  grew  so  tame  it  would  come  down  the  wall 
and  dance  for  me  on  a  level  with  my  face  as  I  sat 
playing,  and  even  spring  off  upon  the  instrument 
if  I  held  it  out.  I  found  my  mind  so  baffled  and 
bewildered  at  last  that  more  than  once  the  con 
viction  has  been  forced  upon  me  that  the  spider 
was  not  a  spider,  but  a —  No,  I'll  not  say  that — 
not  yet,  not  yet! 

These  experiments  had  progressed  for  perhaps 
half  a  dozen  nights,  when,  one  evening,  as  I  sat, 
pen  in  hand,  at  the  desk  here,  mechanically  poring 
over  the  still  incomprehensible  meaning  of  the 
scrawl,  and  writing  and  rewriting  the  two  words 
over  and  over  again  upon  an  empty  page  before 
me,  I  became  suddenly  aware  of  a  strange  sensa 
tion  of  repose.  A  great,  cool  quiet  fell  upon  my 
brain,  as  when  suddenly  within  some  noisy  foundry 
the  clanging  hammers  cease  to  beat  and  all  the 
brazen  tumult  drops  like  a  plummet  into  silence 
fathomless.  I  felt  a  soothing  languor  flowing 
down  and  over  me,  and  ebbing  through  and 
through  my  very  being.  It  was  not  drowsiness ; 
my  eyelids  were  not  heavy,  nor  did  they  droop  the 
167 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

shadow  of  a  shade.  I  saw  everything  about  me 
as  clearly  as  I  do  this  very  moment — only,  I  did 
not  seem  a  part  of  my  surroundings.  My  eyes, 
although  conscious  of  all  objects  within  range, 
were  fixed  upon  the  scrap  of  paper  headed  by  the 
zigzag  scrawl,  and  with  an  intensity  of  gaze  that 
seemed  to  pierce  the  paper  and  to  see  through  it 
and  beyond  it;  and  I  did  not  think  it  strange.  I 
was  dimly  conscious,  too,  of  being  under  the  con 
trol  of  some  hitherto  undreamed-of  influence,  but 
I  felt  no  thought  of  resistance — rather  courted  the 
sensation.  All  was  utter  calm  with  me ;  and  I 
did  not  think  it  strange.  I  saw  my  hand  held  out 
before  me  in  this  same  position — the  forearm  rest 
ing  on  the  desk — the  same  pen  grasped  lightly  in 
my  fingers.  Slowly — slowly — slowly — I  saw  the 
spider  lowering  itself  above  it,  wavering  and  sway 
ing  in  the  air,  until,  at  last,  I  saw  it  reach  its 
dangling  legs  and  clutch  and  cling  to  the  pen 
holder  at  the  tip,  and  rest  there;  and  I  did  not 
think  it  strange.  But  I  grew  duller  then,  and  very 
chilly,  though  I  vividly  recall  seeing  the  hand 
moved — not  of  my  own  volition — the  pen  dipped 
in  the  ink,  and  brought  directly  over  the  old  scrap 
whereon  the  scrawl  was  traced ;  and  I  remember, 
too,  that  as  I  watched  the  motion  of  my  hand,  I 
still  saw  beyond  the  surface  of  the  paper,  and 
read  the  very  words  my  pen  traced  afterward.  I 
168 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER, 

say  the  words  my  pen  traced — or  my  hand — either 
— both, — for  the  act  was  not  my  own,  I  swear! 
And  the  spider  still  sat  perched  there  at  his  post, 
rocked  lightly  with  the  motion  of  the  pen,  with 
all  his  arms  hugged  round  him  as  though  chuckling 
to  himself;  and  I  say  to  you  again,  and  yet  again, 
I  did  not  think  it  strange. 

Not  until  the  page  before  me  had  been  filled  did 
I  regain  my  natural  state  of  being,  nor  did  it  seem 
that  I  then  would,  had  not  the  spider  quitted  his 
position  and  ran  down  the  penholder,  leaning  from 
it  for  an  instant,  touching  and  pressing  my  naked 
hand:  then  I  was  conscious  of  a  keen,  exquisite 
sting;  and  with  a  quick,  spasmodic  motion  I  flung 
the  hideous  insect  from  it.  As  I  lifted  my  white 
face  and  starting  eyes,  I  saw  the  spider  wildly 
clambering  toward  the  ceiling  on  its  invisible 
thread;  and  then,  with  a  mingled  sense  of  fear, 
bewilderment,  and  admiration,  as  oppressive  and 
as  strange  as  indescribable,  I  turned  to  the  mysteri 
ous  scrap  and  read,  traced  tremblingly,  but  plainly, 
in  a  dainty,  flowing  hand,  unlike  any  I  had  ever 
seen  before,  the  lines  I  now  copy  from  the  origi 
nal  script  before  me,  bearing  the  pedantic  title  of 
4 'Ye  Scholar": 

"  Ho!  ho!  Ye  Scholar  recketh  not  how  lean 
His  lank  frame  waxeth  in  ye  hectic  gloom 
That  smeareth  o'er  ye  dim  walls  of  his  room 

169 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

His  wavering  shadow!     Shut  is  he,  I  ween, 

Like  as  a  withered  nosegay,  in  between 

Ye  musty,  mildewed  leaves  of  some  volume 
Of  ancient  lore  ye  moth  and  he  consume 

In  jointure.     Yet  a  something  in  his  mien 
Forbids  all  mockery,  though  quaint  is  he, 

And  eke  fantastical  in  form  and  face 

As  that  Old  Knight  ye  Tale  of  Chivalry 

Made  mad  immortally,  yet  spared  ye  grace 
Of  some  rare  virtue  which  we  sigh  to  see, 
And  pour  our  laughter  out  most  tenderly." 

Over  and  over  I  read  the  strange  production  to 
myself;  and,  as  at  last  I  started  to  my  feet  repeat 
ing  it  aloud,  all  suddenly  the  spider  swooped  on 
its  flying  thread  before  my  upturned  face,  swung 
back  upon  the  margin  of  the  wall,  and  went 
scampering  round  and  round  above  me  as  I  read. 

I  did  not  sleep  two  hours  of  the  night,  but 
mouthed  and  mouthed  that  sonnet — even  in  my 
scrappy  dreams — until  when  morning  strained  the 
sunlight  through  the  slatted  window-blinds,  I 
turned  and  dragged  myself  from  the  room  like  an 
old,  old  man  with  childish  summer  fancies  in  his 
head  and  bleak  and  barren  winter  in  his  bones. 

The  night  following,  and  the  next  night,  and 
the  next,  I  did  not  permit  myself  to  enter  my 
room  after  dark — not  from  a  sense  of  fear,  but 
simply  because  I  felt  my  mind  was  becoming  too 
entirely  engrossed  with  the  contemplation  of  a 
170 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

theme  that,  even  yet  at  times,  I  feared  was  more 
chimera  than  reality. 

Throughout  the  day  I  worked,  as  usual  with  me, 
perhaps  three  hours,  at  such  trivial  tasks  as  re 
quired  only  the  lightest  mental  effort;  nor  did  I 
allow  my  mind  to  wander  from  the  matter-of-fact 
duties  before  me  to  the  contemplation  of  the  ever- 
present  topic  that  so  confounded  it  when  studiously 
dwelt  upon.  Only  once  in  this  long  abstinence 
from  the  fascinating  problem  did  I  catch  sight  of 
the  spider,  peering  down  upon  me  from  behind 
the  shoulder  of  the  little  terra-cotta  bust  of  Dickens 
that  sits  on  a  dusky  bracket  just  above  my  desk. 
I  looked  up  at  the  little  fellow  with  a  smile,  rose 
to  my  feet,  and  held  out  my  hand,  when,  at  the 
motion,  the  insect  cowered  trembling  for  an  in 
stant,  then  sprang  up  the  wall  beyond  my  reach. 
But  from  that  time  on  I  always  felt  its  presence 
though  unseen,  intuitively  conscious  that  at  all 
hours  my  every  act  was  vigilantly  overlooked  and 
guarded  by  the  all-seeing  eye  of  that  spider,  and 
that  every  motion  of  my  pen  was  duly  noted  by  it, 
and  accepted  as  token  of  the  fact  that  I  was  busy 
and  must  not  be  disturbed.  In  fact,  I  even  allowed 
my  vanity  such  license  that  I  came  to  believe  that 
the  spider  was  not  only  interested  in  everything  I 
did,  but  was  actually  proud  of  my  accomplish 
ments  besides.  Certain  it  is,  I  argued,  that  he 

171 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

likes  my  silence,  my  music,  and  my  voice,  and 
equally  apparent  from  his  actions  that  he  likes  my 
society  under  any  and  all  circumstances,  and  it 
shall  not  be  the  promptings  of  mere  curiosity  on 
my  part  in  the  endeavor  to  strengthen  and  develop 
this  curious  bond  of  fellowship,  but  my  serious 
and  most  courteous  duty  as  well. 

So  I  went  back  to  my  night  labors,  even  greeted, 
the  first  evening,  as  I  lit  my  lamp  and  sat  down  at 
the  desk,  with  another  mysterious  scrawl,  which  I 
readily  interpreted  in  the  one  word  "Love." 

I  dashed  the  scrap  down  in  a  very  spasm  of  re 
vulsion  and  loathing.  I  cannot  describe  nor  will 
I  weaken  the  sense  of  utter  abhorrence  that  fell 
upon  me  by  an  attempt  to  set  it  forth  in  words ; 
why,  I  could  taste  it,  and  it  sickened  me  soul- 
deep  !  I  remember  catching  quick  breaths  through 
my  clinched  and  naked  teeth ;  I  remember  snatch 
ing  up  the  pen  as  a  despairing  man  might  grasp 
a  dagger;  I  remember  stabbing  it  in  the  ink,  and 
drawing  it  back  in  defiance ;  but  as  my  hand  once 
more  rested  on  the  desk  it  was  my  hand  no  longer. 
— It  was  like  another  man's,  and  that  man  my 
deadly  foe.  I  looked  upon  it  vengefully,  wishing 
that  in  my  other  I  but  held  an  axe — an  old  axe, 
with  a  nicked  and  rusty  edge, — that  I  might  hack 
and  haggle  the  traitor-member  sheer  off  at  the 
numb  and  pulseless  wrist.  And  then  the  spider! 
172 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

I  tried  to  shrink  back  as  the  hideous  insect  again 
dangled  before  my  eyes,  but  could  not  move. 
Once  more  it  clutched  the  holder  of  the  pen,  hud 
dled  its  quivering  limbs  together,  and  squatted  in 
its  old  position  on  the  tip.  And  then  began  the 
movement  of  the  hand. 

This  time  my  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  insect. 
I  could  not  move  them  from  it.  I  could  see  noth 
ing  else ;  and  but  for  the  undulating  motions  of  the 
pen  I  felt  that  I  might  note  its  very  breathings — 
and  I  did  see  it  smile.  Oh,  horrible !  Why,  I 
set  my  teeth  together  till  my  inner  sense  of  hear 
ing  pinged  like  a  bell,  and  I  said,  away  down 
among  the  twanging  fibres  of  my  heart,  "I  will 
kill  you  for  that  smile !  I  will  kill  you — kill  you !" 
And  when  at  last  the  motion  of  the  hand  had 
ceased,  and  the  hideous  insect  again  ran  down  the 
penholder,  leaning,  and  pressing  into  my  naked 
flesh  that  keen,  exquisite  sting,  I  snapped  the  thrall 
that  bound  me,  flung  the  spider  violently  against 
the  desk,  stabbed  the  pen  wildly  at  it  with  a  dozen 
swift,  vindictive  motions  as  the  abhorrent  thing 
lay  for  the  moment  writhing  on  its  back.  And  I 
struck  it,  too,  and  pinioned  it ;  but  as  for  an  in 
stant  I  turned  away  from  the  revolting  sight,  my 
pen  still  quivering  above  it,  sunken  eye-deep  in  the 
desk,  my  victim  yet  escaped  me,  for,  as  I  turned 
again,  no  sign  remained  to  designate  my  murder- 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

ous  deed  but  one  poor  severed  limb,  twitching  and 
trembling  in  ever-lessening  throes  and  convulsions. 
I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  mysterious  scrap 
once  more,  with  the  same  unaccountable  feeling 
of  dread  and  revulsion  that  had  possessed  me  as 
I  read  the  scrawl.  Written  in  the  same  minute, 
tremulous  but  legible  hand  in  which  the  first  was 
traced,  I  read: 

"  O,  what  strange  tragedy  is  this  of  mine 

That  wars  within,  and  will  not  let  me  cry? 

My  soul  seems  leaking  from  me  sigh  by  sigh; 
And  yet  I  dare  not  say — nor  he  divine — 
That  I,  so  vile  and  loathsome  in  design, 

Am  brimmed  with  boiling  love;  but  I  must  lie 

Forever  steeped  in  seething  agony ! 
If  all  these  quivering  arms  might  wreathe  and  twine, 

And  soak  him  up  in  one  warm  clasp  of  bliss — 
One  long  caress,  when  babbling  wild  with  words 

My  voice  were  crushed  and  mangled  with  his  kiss,— 
My  soul  would  whistle  sweeter  than  the  birds. — 

But  now,  my  dry  and  husky  heart  in  this 

Pent  heat  of  gasping  passion  can  but  hiss!" 

Be  patient !  I  am  hurrying  toward  the  end.  I 
am  very  lonesome  here  alone.  For  three  long, 
empty  nights  have  I  sat  thus,  with  nothing  but  the 
raspings  of  my  pen  for  company.  I  cannot  sleep 
now ;  and  I  wouldn't  if  I  could.  My  head  feels 
as  if  I  had  a  very  heavy  hat  on,  and  I  put  up  my 
hand  sometimes  to  see.  My  head  is  feverish, 
174 


TAI,E    OF    A    SPIDER 

that's  all.  I  have  been  working  too  late  again. 
Last  night  I  heard  Hays  come  up  the  steps — my 
window  opens  on  an  alley,  but  at  night  the  light 
shows  from  the  street.  Hays  has  a  peculiar  walk: 
I'd  know  it  if  I  heard  it  in  the  grass  above  my 
grave.  And  he  came  up  the  stairs  last  night,  and 
knocked  and  rattled  at  the  door ;  but  I  was  very 
still,  and  so  he  went  away.  Sometimes  I  think 
that  fellow  isn't  right  exactly  in  his  mind.  I  never 
knew  what  silence  was  before.  It  will  not  even 
whisper  to  me  now.  Sometimes  I  stop  and  listen, 
and  then  it  holds  its  breath  and  listens  too — but 
we  never  hear  a  thing.  The  old  guitar  leans  in 
the  corner  with  its  face  turned  to  the  wall.  I  know 
it's  sorry,  but  it  would  be  such  a  comfort  to  me  if 
it  would  only  moan  or  murmur  as  it  used  to.  I 
always  tune  it  the  first  thing  when  I  come  in,  and 
lean  it  back,  just  as  it  was  when  the  spider  first 
began  to  play  it ;  but  the  spider  won't  go  near  it 
any  more.  Even  the  spider  has  deserted  me,  and 
gone  away  and  left  me  here  alone — all  alone ! 
One  night,  late,  I  heard  it  coming  up  the  stairs ; 
and  it  knocked  and  rattled  at  the  door,  and  I 
wouldn't  let  it  in,  and  so  it  went  away — and  do 
you  know  that  I  have  often  thought  that  that 
spider  wasn't  right — in  its  mind,  you  know?  Oh, 
yes !  I  have  often  thought  so — often !  This  hat 
bothers  me,  but  I'll  hurry  on — I  must  hurry  on. 

175 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

When  I  came  in  to-night — no  ;  last  night  it  was 
— when  I  came  to  work  last  night,  there  was 
another  of  those  scrawls  the  spider  had  left  for 
me,  and  it  was  written  in  a  very  trembling  hand. 
The  letters  were  blotted  and  slurred  together  so  I 
could  hardly  make  the  word  out;  but  I  did  make 
it  out,  and  it  was  simply  the  one  word,  "Death" 
— just  "Death."  I  didn't  like  the  looks  of  it,  and 
I  tried  to  make  it  read  something  else;  but  it 
wouldn't.  It  was  "Death."  And  so  I  laid  it 
gently  on  the  desk  and  walked  about  the  room 
very  softly  for  a  long  time.  And  the  night  kept 
on  getting  stiller,  and  stiller,  and  stiller,  till  it  just 
stopped.  But  that  didn't  disturb  me;  I  was  not 
sleepy,  anyhow,  and  so  I  sat  down  at  the  desk, 
took  up  my  pen,  and  waited.  I  had  nothing  else 
to  do,  and  the  guitar  wouldn't  play  any  more,  and 
I  was  lonesome ;  so  I  sat  down  at  the  desk,  and 
took  up  the  pen,  and  waited. 

Sometimes  I  think  it's  those  spells  the  spider 
gives  me  that  make  my  head  feel  this  way.  It 
feels  like  I  had  a  heavy  hat  on;  but  I  haven't  any 
hat  on  at  all,  and  if  I  had  I  wouldn't  have  it  on 
here  in  the  room.  I  can't  even  sit  in  the  cars  with 
a  hat  on. 

And  so  I  waited,  and  waited ;  but  it  seemed  like 
it  hadn't  got  still  enough  for  the  spider  yet.  It 
was  still  enough  for  me;  but  I  got  to  thinking 
176 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

about  why  the  spider  didn't  come,  and  concluded 
at  last  that  it  wasn't  still  enough  yet  for  the  spider. 
So  I  waited  till  it  got  so  still  I  could  see  it:  and 
then  the  spider  came  sliding  along  down  through 
it;  and  when  it  touched  the  penholder,  and  I  got 
a  good  clear  look  at  it,  I  flashed  dead-numb  clean 
to  the  marrow. — It  was  so  pale!  Did  you  ever 
see  a  spider  after  it  has  had  a  long  spell  of  sick 
ness  ?  That's  the  way  this  spider  looked.  I  shud 
dered  as  it  huddled  its  trembling  legs  together  and 
sat  down.  And  then  the  pen  moved  off,  with  that 
pale,  ghastly,  haggard  insect  nodding  away  again 
as  though  it  still  were  victor  of  the  field ;  and  as, 
at  last,  I  found  courage  to  peer  closer  into  its  face, 
I  saw  that  same  accursed  smile  flung  back  at  me. 
All  pity  and  compassion  fled  away,  and  I  felt  my 
heart  snarl  rabidly  and  champ  its  bloody  jaws  with 
deadly  hate.  And  when  the  spider  hobbled  down 
the  penholder  and  touched  my  hand  again,  the 
only  sting  I  felt  upon  it  was  the  vengeful  blow  I 
smote  it  with  the  other,  as  I  held  and  ground  it 
there  with  an  exultant  cry  that  rang  out  upon  the 
silence  till  the  echoes  clapped  their  very  hands  and 
shouted  with  me,  "Dead!  dead  at  last!  Dead! 
dead!  and  I  am  free!"  Oh,  how  I  revelled  in 
my  fancied  triumph  as  I  danced  about  the  room, 
crunching  my  hands  together  till  I  thought  that  I 
could  feel  the  clammy  fragments  of  the  hateful 
177 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

thing  gaumed  and  slimed  about  between  my  palms 
and  fingers !  And  what  a  fool  I  was !  for  when 
at  last  I  unclasped  them  and  spread  them  wide 
apart  in  utter  loathing,  they  were  as  free  from  taint 
or  moisture  as  they  are  this  very  moment;  and 
then  it  all  flashed  on  me  that  I  was  in  some  horrid 
dream — some  hideous,  baleful  nightmare — some 
fell  delusion  of  a  fevered  sleep.  But  no!  I  could 
not  force  that  comfort  on  myself,  for  here  the  lamp 
sat  burning  brightly  as  at  this  very  moment,  and  I 
reached  and  held  my  finger  on  the  chimney  till  it 
burned.  I  wheeled  across  the  room,  opened  the 
door,  went  to  the  window  and  raised  it,  and  felt 
the  chill  draught  sweeping  in  upon  my  fevered 
face.  I  took  my  hat  from  the  sofa  and  dashed  out 
into  the  night.  I  was  not  asleep ;  I  had  not  been 
asleep;  for  not  until  broad  daylight  did  I  return, 
to  find  the  window  opened  just  as  I  had  left  it; 
the  lamp  still  blazing  at  its  fullest  glare,  and  that 
grim  scrawl,  "Death,"  lying  still  upon  the  desk, 
with  these  lines  traced  legibly  beneath  it: 

"  And  did  you  know  our  old  friend  Death  is  dead? 
Ah  me!  he  died  last  night;  my  ghost  was  there, 
And  all  his  phantom-friends  from  everywhere 
Were  sorrowfully  grouped  about  his  bed. 
'  I  die;  God  help  the  living  now!'  he  said 
With  such  a  ghastly  pathos,  I  declare 
The  tears  oozed  from  the  blind  eyes  of  the  air 
And  spattered  on  his  face  in  gouts  of  red. 
178 


TALE    OF    A    SPIDER 

And  then  he  smiled — the  dear  old  bony  smile 
That  glittered  on  us  in  that  crazy  whim 

When  first  our  daring  feet  leapt  the  defile 
Of  life  and  ran  so  eagerly  to  him: 

And  so  he  smiled  upon  us,  even  while 
The  kind  old  sockets  grew  forever  dim." 

I  am  almost  through.  It  is  nearly  morning  as  I 
write.  When  daylight  comes,  and  this  is  finished, 
I  can  sleep. 

That  last  spider  that  appeared  to  me  was  not 
the  real  spider.  That  last  spider  was  not  a  spider, 
and  I'll  tell  you  how  I  know:  Four  hours  ago,  as 
I  sat  writing  here,  I  dipped  and  dragged  a  strange 
clot  from  the  inkstand  with  my  pen.  It  is  barely 
dry  yet,  and  it  is  a  drowned  spider.  It  is  the  real 
spider — the  other  spider  was  its  ghost.  Listen  :  I 
know  this  is  the  real  spider  from  the  fact  that  it 
has  one  leg  missing,  and  the  leg  that  has  been  lying 
on  my  desk  here,  for  three  days  and  nights,  I  find, 
upon  careful  examination  and  adjustment,  is  the 
leg  that  originally  supplied  this  deficiency. 

Whatever  theory  it  may  please  you  to  advance 
regarding  the  mysterious  manifestations  of  the 
spider  while  in  the  flesh  will  doubtless  be  as  near 
the  correct  one  as  my  own.  Certainly  I  shall  not 
attempt  to  controvert  any  opinion  you  may  choose 
to  express.  I  simply  reserve  the  right,  in  con 
clusion  of  my  story,  to  say  that  I  believe  this 
spider  met  his  death  by  suicide. 
179 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 


WHERE  IS  MARY  ALICE  SMITH? 

"WHERE — is  —  Mary — Alice — Smith?  Oh — 
she — has — gone — home!"  It  was  the  thin,  mys 
terious  voice  of  little  Mary  Alice  Smith  herself 
that  so  often  queried  and  responded  as  above — 
every  word  accented  with  a  sweet  and  eerie  into 
nation,  and  a  very  gayety  of  solemn  earnestness  that 
baffled  the  cunning  skill  of  all  childish  imitators. 
A  slender  wisp  of  a  girl  she  was,  not  more  than 
ten  years  of  age  in  appearance,  though  it  had 
been  given  to  us  as  fourteen.  The  spindle  ankles 
that  she  so  airily  flourished  from  the  sparse  con 
cealment  of  a  worn  and  shadowy  calico  skirt 
seemed  scarce  a  fraction  more  in  girth  than  the 
slim,  blue-veined  wrists  she  tossed  among  the 
loose  and  ragged  tresses  of  her  yellow  hair,  as  she 
danced  around  the  room.  She  was,  from  the  first, 
an  object  of  curious  and  most  refreshing  interest 
to  our  family — to  us  children  in  particular — an  in 
terest,  though  years  and  years  have  interposed  to 
shroud  it  in  the  dull  dust  of  forgetfulness,  that  still 
remains  vivid  and  bright  and  beautiful.  Whether 
an  orphan  child  only,  or  with  a  father  that  could 

183 


WHERE    IS    MARY   ALICE    SMITH? 

thus  lightly  send  her  adrift,  I  do  not  know  now, 
nor  do  I  care  to  ask,  but  I  do  recall  distinctly  that 
on  a  raw,  bleak  day  in  early  winter  she  was 
brought  to  us,  from  a  wild  country  settlement,  by 
a  reputed  uncle — a  gaunt,  round-shouldered  man, 
with  deep  eyes  and  sallow  cheeks  and  weedy-look 
ing  beard,  as  we  curiously  watched  him  from  the 
front  window  stolidly  swinging  this  little,  blue- 
lipped,  red-nosed  waif  over  the  muddy  wagon- 
wheel  to  father's  arms,  like  so  much  country  pro 
duce.  And  even  as  the  man  resumed  his  seat 
upon  the  thick  board  laid  across  the  wagon,  and 
sat  chewing  a  straw,  with  spasmodic  noddings  of 
the  head,  as  some  brief  further  conference  de 
tained  him,  I  remember  mother  quickly  lifting  my 
sister  up  from  where  we  stood,  folding  and  hold 
ing  the  little  form  in  unconscious  counterpart  of 
father  and  the  little  girl  without.  And  how  we 
gathered  round  her  when  father  brought  her  in, 
and  mother  fixed  a  cosey  chair  for  her  close  to  the 
blazing  fire,  and  untied  the  little  summer  hat,  with 
its  hectic  trimmings,  together  with  the  dismal  green 
veil  that  had  been  bound  beneath  it  round  the  lit 
tle,  tingling  ears.  The  hollow,  pale-blue  eyes  of 
the  child  followed  every  motion  with  an  alertness 
that  suggested  a  somewhat  suspicious  mind. 

"Dave  gimme  that!"  she  said,  her  eyes  proudly 
following  the  hat  as  mother  laid  it  on  the  pillow  of 
184 


WHERE    IS    MARY   ALICE    SMITH? 

the  bed.  "Musn't  git  it  mussed  up,  sir!  er  you'll 
have  Dave  in  yer  wool !"  she  continued,  warningly, 
as  our  childish  interest  drew  us  to  a  nearer  view 
of  the  gaudy  article  in  question. 

Half  awed,  we  shrank  back  to  our  first  wonder 
ment,  one  of  us,  however,  with  the  bravery  to  ask: 
"Who's  Dave?" 

"Who's  Dave?"  reiterated  the  little  voice,  half 
scornfully. — "Why,  Dave's  a  great  big  boy !  Dave 
works  on  Barnes's  place.  And  he  kin  purt'-nigh 
make  a  full  hand,  too.  Dave's  purt'-nigh  as  tall 
as  your  pap!  He's  purt'-nigh  growed  up — Dave 
is!  And — David — Mason — Jeffries,"  she  contin 
ued,  jauntily  teetering  her  head  from  left  to  right, 
and  for  the  first  time  introducing  that  peculiar  de 
liberation  of  accent  and  undulating  utterance  that 
we  afterward  found  to  be  her  quaintest  and  most 
charming  characteristic — ' '  and — David — Mason — 
Jeffries — he — likes — Mary — Alice — Smith !"  And 
then  she  broke  abruptly  into  the  merriest  laughter, 
and  clapped  her  little  palms  together  till  they  fairly 
glowed. 

"And  who's  Mary  Alice  Smith?"  clamored  a 
chorus  of  merry  voices. 

The  elfish  figure  straightened  haughtily  in  the 
chair.  Folding  the  slender  arms  tightly  across  her 
breast,  and  tilting  her  wan  face  back  with  an  im 
perious  air,  she  exclaimed  sententiously,  "W'y, 

'85 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

Mary  Alice  Smith  is  me — that's  who  Mary  Alice 
Smith  is!" 

It  was  not  long,  however,  before  her  usual  bright 
and  infectious  humor  was  restored,  and  we  were 
soon  piloting  the  little  stranger  here  and  there  about 
the  house,  and  laughing  at  the  thousand  funny 
things  she  said  and  did.  The  winding  stairway  in 
the  hall  quite  dazed  her  with  delight.  Up  and 
down  she  went  a  hundred  times,  it  seemed.  And 
she  would  talk  and  whisper  to  herself,  and  often 
times  would  stop  and  nestle  down  and  rest  her 
pleased  face  close  against  a  step  and  pat  it  softly 
with  her  slender  hand,  peering  curiously  down  at 
us  with  half-averted  eyes.  And  she  counted  them 
and  named  them,  every  one,  as  she  went  up  and 
down. 

"I'm  mighty  glad  I'm  come  to  live  in  this-here 
house,"  she  said. 

We  asked  her  why. 

"Oh,  'cause,"  she  said,  starting  up  the  stairs 
again  by  an  entirely  novel  and  original  method  of 
her  own — "  'cause  Uncle  Tomps  ner  Aunt  'Liza- 
beth  don't  live  here;  and  when  they  ever  come 
here  to  git  their  dinners,  like  they  will  ef  you  don't 
watch  out,  w'y,  then  I  kin  slip  out  here  on  these- 
here  stairs  and  play  like  I  was  climbin'  up  to  the 
Good  World  where  my  mother  is — that's  why!" 

Then  we  hushed  our  laughter,  and  asked  her 
186 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

where  her  home  was,  and  what  it  was  like,  and 
why  she  didn't  like  her  Uncle  Tomps  and  Aunt 
'Lizabeth,  and  if  she  wouldn't  want  to  visit  them 
sometimes. 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  artlessly  answered  in  reply  to 
the  concluding  query;  "I'll  want  to  go  back  there 
lots  o'  times;  but  not  to  see  them!  I'll — only — 
go — back — there — to — see" — and  here  she  was 
holding  up  the  little  flared-out  fingers  of  her  left 
hand,  and  with  the  index-finger  of  the  right  touch 
ing  their  pink  tips  in  ordered  notation  with  the  ac 
cent  of  every  gleeful  word — "I'll — only — go — 
back  —  there  —  to — see — David — Mason — Jeffries 
— 'cause — he's — the — boy — f er — me ! ' '  And  then 
she  clapped  her  hands  again  and  laughed  in  that 
half-hysterical,  half-musical  way  of  hers  till  we  all 
joined  in  and  made  the  echoes  of  the  old  hall  ring 
again.  "And  then,"  she  went  on,  suddenly  throw 
ing  out  an  imperative  gesture  of  silence — "and 
then,  after  I've  been  in  this-here  house  a  long, 
long  time,  and  you  all  git  so's  you  like  me  awful 
— awful — awful  well,  then  some  day  you'll  go  in 
that  room  there — and  that  room  there — and  in  the 
kitchen — and  out  on  the  porch — and  down  the 
cellar — and  out  in  the  smoke-house — and  the  wood- 
house — and  the  loft — and  all  around — Oh,  ever' 
place — and  in  here — and  up  the  stairs — and  all 
them  rooms  up  there — and  you'll  look  behind  all 
187 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

the  door«s — and  In  all  the  cubboards — and  under  all 
the  beds — and  then  you'll  look  sorry-like,  and  hol 
ler  out,  kindo'  skeert,  and  you'll  say:  'Where — 
is — Mary — Alice — Smith?'  And  then  you'll  wait 
and  listen  and  hold  yer  breath ;  and  then  somepin'll 
holler  back,  away  fur  off,  and  say:  'Oh — she — 
has — gone — home!'  And  then  ever'thing'llbe  all 
still  ag'in,  and  you'll  be  afeared  to  holler  anymore 
— and  you  dursn't  play — and  you  can't  laugh,  and 
yer  throat' 11  thist  hurt  and  hurt,  like  you  been 
a-eatin'  too  much  calamus-root  er  somepin'!" 
And  as  the  little  gypsy  concluded  her  weird 
prophecy,  with  a  final  flourish  of  her  big,  pale 
eyes,  we  glanced  furtively  at  one  another's  awe 
struck  faces,  with  a  superstitious  dread  of  a  vague, 
indefinite  disaster  most  certainly  awaiting  us  around 
some  shadowy  corner  of  the  future.  Through  all 
this  speech  she  had  been  slowly  and  silently  grop 
ing  up  the  winding  steps,  her  voice  growing  fainter 
and  fainter,  and  the  little  pixy-form  fading,  and 
wholly  vanishing  at  last  around  the  spiral  banister 
of  the  upper  landing.  Then  down  to  us  from  that 
alien  recess  came  the  voice  alone,  touched  with  a 
tone  as  of  wild  entreaty  and  despair:  "Where — 
is — Mary — Alice — Smith?"  And  then  a  long, 
breathless  pause,  in  which  our  wide-eyed  group 
below  huddled  still  closer,  pale  and  mute.  Then 
— far  off  and  faint  and  quavering  with  a  tender- 
188 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

ness  of  pathos  that  dews  the  eyes  of  memory  even 
now — came,  like  a  belated  echo,  the  voice  all  des 
olate  :  ' '  Oh — she — has — gone — home ! ' ' 

What  a  queer  girl  she  was,  and  what  a  fascinat 
ing  influence  she  unconsciously  exerted  over  us? 
We  never  tired  of  her  presence ;  but  she,  deprived 
of  ours  by  the  many  household  tasks  that  she  her 
self  assumed,  so  rigidly  maintained  and  deftly  ex 
ecuted,  seemed  always  just  as  happy  when  alone 
as  when  in  our  boisterous,  fun-loving  company. 
Such  resources  had  Mary  Alice  Smith — such  a 
wonderfully  inventive  fancy!  She  could  talk  to 
herself — a  favorite  amusement,  I  might  almost  say 
a  popular  amusement,  of  hers,  since  these  mono 
logues  at  times  would  involve  numberless  charac 
ters,  chipping  in  from  manifold  quarters  of  a  whole 
sale  discussion,  and  querying  and  exaggerating, 
agreeing  and  controverting,  till  the  dishes  she  was 
washing  would  clash  and  clang  excitedly  in  the 
general  badinage.  Loaded  with  a  pyramid  of 
glistening  cups  and  saucers,  she  would  improvise 
a  gallant  line  of  march  from  the  kitchen  table  to 
the  pantry,  heading  an  imaginary  procession,  and 
whistling  a  fife-tune  that  would  stir  your  blood. 
Then  she  would  trippingly  return,  rippling  her 
rosy  fingers  up  and  down  the  keys  of  an  imaginary 
portable  piano,  or  stammering  flat-soled  across  the 
floor,  chuffing  and  tooting  like  a  locomotive.  And 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

she  would  gravely  propound  to  herself  the  most 
intricate  riddles  —  ponder  thoughtfully  and  in 
silence  over  them  —  hazard  the  most  ridiculous 
answers,  and  laugh  derisively  at  her  own  affected 
ignorance.  She  would  guess  again  and  again, 
and  assume  the  most  gleeful  surprise  upon  at  last 
giving  the  proper  answer,  and  then  she  would 
laugh  jubilantly,  and  mockingly  scout  herself  with 
having  given  out  "a  fool-riddle"  that  she  could 
guess  "with  both  eyes  shut." 

"Talk  about  riddles,"  she  said  abruptly  to  us, 
one  evening  after  supper,  as  we  lingered  watching 
her  clearing  away  the  table — "talk  about  riddles, 
it — takes  —  David  —  Mason — Jeffries — to  —  tell — 
riddles!  Bet  you  don't  know 

'  Riddle-cum,  riddle-cum  right! 
Where  was  I  last  Saturd'y  night? 
The  winds  did  blow — the  boughs  did  shake — 
I  saw  the  hole  a  fox  did  make!' " 

Again  we  felt  that  indefinable  thrill  never  sepa 
rate  from  the  strange  utterance,  suggestive  always 
of  some  dark  mystery,  and  fascinating  and  hold 
ing  the  childish  fancy  in  complete  control. 

"Bet  you  don't  know  this-'un  neether: 

'  A  holler-hearted  father, 

And  a  hump-back  mother — 
Three  black  orphants 
All  born  together!'" 

190 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

We  were  dumb. 

"You  can't  guess  nothin' !"  she  said,  half  pity 
ingly.  "W'y,  them's  easy  as  fallin'  off  a  chunk! 
First-'un's  a  man  named  Fox,  and  he  kilt  his  wife 
and  chopped  her  head  off,  and  they  was  a  man 
named  Wright  lived  in  that  neighberhood — and  he 
was  a-goin'  home — and  it  was  Saturd'y  night — and 
he  was  a-comin'  through  the  big  woods — and  they 
was  a  storm — and  Wright  he  clumb  a  tree  to  git 
out  the  rain,  and  while  he  was  up  there  here  come 
along  a  man  with  a  dead  woman — and  a  pickaxe, 
and  a  spade.  And  he  drug  the  dead  woman  under 
the  same  tree  where  Mr.  Wright  was — so  ever' 
time  it  'ud  lightnin',  w'y,  Wright  he  could  look 
down  and  see  him  a-diggin'  a  grave  there  to  bury 
the  woman  in.  So  Wright  he  kep'  still  tel  he  got 
her  buried  all  right,  you  know,  and  went  back 
home ;  and  then  he  clumb  down  and  lit  out  fer 
town,  and  waked  up  the  constabul — and  he  got  a 
supeeny  and  went  out  to  Fox's  place,  and  had  him 
jerked  up  'fore  the  gran'  jury.  Then,  when  Fox 
was  in  court  and  wanted  to  know  where  their  proof 
was  that  he  kilt  his  wife,  w'y,  Wright  he  jumps  up 
and  says  that  riddle  to  the  judge  and  all  the  neigh- 
bers  that  was  there.  And  so  when  they  got  it  all 
studied  out — w'y,  they  tuk  old  Fox  out  and  hung 
him  under  the  same  tree  where  he  buried  Mrs. 
Fox  under.  And  that's  all  o'  that'n ;  and  the 
191 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

other' n — I  promised — David — Mason — Jeffries — I 
wouldn't — never — tell — no  —  livin' — soul — 'less — 
he — gimme — leef, — er — they — guessed — it — out — 
their — own — se'f !"  And  as  she  gave  this  rather 
ambiguous  explanation  of  the  first  riddle,  with  the 
mysterious  comment  on  the  latter  in  conclusion, 
she  shook  her  elfin  tresses  back  over  her  shoulders 
with  a  cunning  toss  of  her  head  and  a  glimmering 
twinkle  of  her  pale,  bright  eyes  that  somehow  re 
minded  us  of  the  fairy  godmother  in  Cinderella. 

And  Mary  Alice  Smith  was  right,  too,  in  her 
early  prognostications  regarding  the  visits  of  her 
Uncle  Tomps  and  Aunt  'Lizabeth.  Many  times 
through  the  winter  they  "jest  dropped  in,"  as 
Aunt  'Lizabeth  always  expressed  it,  "to  see  how 
we  was  a-gittin'  on  with  Mary  Alice."  And  once, 
"in  court  week,"  during  a  prolonged  trial  in  which 
Uncle  Tomps  and  Aunt  'Lizabeth  rather  promi 
nently  figured,  they  "jest  dropped  in"  upon  us 
and  settled  down  and  dwelt  with  us  for  the  longest 
five  days  and  nights  we  children  had  ever  in  our 
lives  experienced.  Nor  was  our  long  term  of  re 
straint  from  childish  sports  relieved  wholly  by  their 
absence,  since  Aunt  'Lizabeth  had  taken  Mary 
Alice  back  with  them,  saying  that  "a  good  long 
visit  to  her  dear  old  home — pore  as  it  was — would 
do  the  child  good." 

And  then  it  was  that  we  went  about  the  house 
192 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

in  moody  silence,  the  question,  "Where — is — 
Mary — Alice — Smith?"  forever  yearning  at  our 
lips  for  utterance,  and  the  still  belated  echo  in  the 
old  hall  overhead  forever  answering,  "Oh — she — 
has — gone — home ! ' ' 

It  was  early  spring  when  she  returned.  And 
we  were  looking  for  her  coming,  and  knew  a  week 
beforehand  the  very  day  she  would  arrive — for  had 
not  Aunt  'Lizabeth  sent  special  word  by  Uncle 
Tomps,  who  "had  come  to  town  to  do  his  millin', 
and  git  the  latest  war  news,  not  to  fail  to  jest  drop 
in  and  tell  us  that  they  was  layin'  off  to  send  Mary 
Alice  in  next  Saturd'y." 

Our  little  town,  like  every  other  village  and 
metropolis  throughout  the  country  at  that  time, 
was,  to  the  children  at  least,  a  scene  of  continuous 
holiday  and  carnival.  The  nation's  heart  was 
palpitating  with  the  feverish  pulse  of  war,  and 
already  the  still  half-frozen  clods  of  the  common 
highway  were  beaten  into  frosty  dust  by  the  tread 
of  marshaled  men;  and  the  shrill  shriek  of  the 
fife,  and  the  hoarse  boom  and  jar  and  rattling  pat 
ter  of  the  drums  stirred  every  breast  with  some 
thing  of  that  rapturous  insanity  of  which  true 
patriots  and  heroes  can  alone  be  made. 

But  on  that  day — when  Mary  Alice  Smith  was 
to  return — what  was  all  the  gallant  tumult  of  the 
town  to  us  ?  I  remember  how  we  ran  far  up  the 

'93 


WHERE    IS    MARY   ALICE    SMITH? 

street  to  welcome  her — for  afar  off  we  had  recog 
nised  her  elfish  face  and  eager  eyes  peering  ex 
pectantly  from  behind  the  broad  shoulders  of  a 
handsome  fellow  mounted  on  a  great  high-step 
ping  horse  that  neighed  and  pranced  excitedly  as 
we  ran  skurrying  toward  them. 

"Whoo-ee!"  she  cried,  in  perfect  ecstasy,  as  we 
paused  in  breathless  admiration.  "Clear — the — 
track — there, —  old — folks — young — folks ! — fer — 
Mary — Alice  —  Smith  — and  —  David  —  Mason — 
Jeffries — is — come — to — town ! " 

O  what  a  day  that  was !  And  how  vain  indeed 
would  be  the  attempt  to  detail  here  a  tithe  of  its 
glory,  or  our  happiness  in  having  back  with  us  our 
dear  little  girl,  and  her  hysterical  delight  in  seeing 
us  so  warmly  welcome  to  the  full  love  of  our 
childish  hearts  the  great,  strong,  round-faced,  sim- 
ple-natured  "David — Mason — Jeffries"!  Long 
and  long  ago  we  had  learned  to  love  him  as  we 
loved  the  peasant  hero  of  some  fairy  tale  of  Chris 
tian  Andersen's;  but  now  that  he  was  with  us  in 
most  wholesome  and  robust  verity,  our  very  souls 
seemed  scampering  from  our  bodies  to  run  to  him 
and  be  caught  up  and  tossed  and  swung  and  dan 
dled  in  his  gentle,  giant  arms. 

All  that  long  delicious  morning  we  were  with 
him.  In  his  tender  charge  we  were  permitted  to 
go  down  among  the  tumult  and  the  music  of  the 
194 


WHE11E    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

streets,  his  round,  good-humored  face  and  big  blue 
eyes  lit  with  a  lustre  like  our  own.  And  happy  little 
Mary  Alice  Smith — how  proud  she  was  of  him ! 
And  how  closely  and  how  tenderly,  through  all 
that  golden  morning,  did  the  strong  brown  hand 
clasp  hers !  A  hundred  times  at  least,  as  we  prom 
enaded  thus,  she  swung  her  head  back  jauntily  to 
whisper  to  us  in  that  old  mysterious  way  of  hers 
that  ' 'David — Mason  —  Jeffries  —  and  —  Mary — 
Alice  —  Smith  —  knew —  something — that — we — 
couldn't — guess!"  But  when  he  had  returned  us 
home,  and  after  dinner  had  started  down  the  street 
alone,  with  little  Mary  Alice  clapping  her  hands 
after  him  above  the  gate  and  laughing  in  a  strange 
new  voice,  and  with  the  backs  of  her  little,  flutter 
ing  hands  vainly  striving  to  blot  out  the  big  tear 
drops  that  gathered  in  her  eyes,  we  vaguely 
guessed  the  secret  she  and  David  kept.  That 
night  at  supper-time  we  knew  it  fully.  He  had 
enlisted. 

Among  the  list  of  "killed"  at  Rich  Mountain, 
Va.,  occurred  the  name  of  "Jeffries,  David  M." 
We  kept  it  from  her  while  we  could.  At  last  she 
knew. 

"It  don't  seem  like  no  year  ago  to  me!"  Over 
and  over  she  had  said  these  words.  The  face  was 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

very  pale  and  thin,  and  the  eyes  so  bright — so 
bright !  The  kindly  hand  that  smoothed  away  the 
little  sufferer's  hair  trembled  and  dropped  tenderly 
again  upon  the  folded  ones  beneath  the  snowy 
spread. 

"Git  me  out  the  picture  again!" 

The  trembling  hand  lifted  once  more  and 
searched  beneath  the  pillow. 

She  drew  the  thin  hands  up,  and,  smiling, 
pressed  the  pictured  face  against  her  lips.  "David 
— Mason — Jeffries,"  she  said — "le's — me — and — 
you — go — play — out — on — the — stairs ! " 

And  ever  in  the  empty  home  a  voice  goes  moan 
ing  on  and  on,  and  "Where  is  Mary  Alice  Smith?" 
it  cries,  and  "Where — is — Mary — Alice — Smith  ?" 
And  the  still  belated  echo,  through  the  high  depths 
of  the  old  hall  overhead,  answers  quaveringly 
back,  "Oh — she — has — gone — home!"  But  her 
voice — it  is  silent  evermore ! 

"Oh,  Where  is  Mary  Alice  Smith  ?"  She  taught 
us  how  to  call  her  thus — and  now  she  will  not  an 
swer  us !  Have  we  no  voice  to  reach  her  with  ? 
How  sweet  and  pure  and  glad  they  were  in  those  old 
days,  as  we  recall  the  accents  ringing  through  the 
hall — the  same  we  vainly  cry  to  her.  Her  fancies 
were  so  quaint — her  ways  so  full  of  prankish  mys 
teries  !  We  laughed  then ;  now,  upon  our  knees, 
we  wring  our  lifted  hands  and  gaze,  through  stream- 
196 


WHERE    IS    MARY    ALICE    SMITH? 

ing  tears,  high  up  the  stair  she  used  to  climb  in 
childish  glee,  to  calFand  answer  eerily.  And  now, 
no  answer  anywhere ! 

How  deft  the  little  finger-tips  in  every  task !  The 
hands,  how  smooth  and  delicate  to  lull  and  soothe  I 
And  the  strange  music  of  her  lips!  The  very 
crudeness  of  their  speech  made  chaster  yet  the 
childish  thought  her  guileless  utterance  had  caught 
from  spirit-depths  beyond  our  reach.  And  so  her 
homely  name  grew  fair  and  sweet  and  beautiful  to 
hear,  blent  with  the  echoes  pealing  clear  and 
vibrant  up  the  winding  stair:  "Where — where  is 
Mary  Alice  Smith?"  She  taught  us  how  to  call 
her  thus — but  oh,  she  will  not  answer  usl  We 
have  no  voice  to  reach  her  with. 


197 


THE  BAN 


THE  BAN 


Strange  dreams  of  what  I  used  to  be  1 

And  what  I  dreamed  I  would  be,  swim 

Before  my  vision,  faint  and  dim 

As  misty  distances  we  see 

In  pictured  scenes  of  fairy-lands; 

And  ever  on,  with  empty  hands, 

And  eyes  that  ever  lie  to  me, 

And  smiles  that  no  one  understands, 

I  grope  adown  my  destiny. 


Some  say  I  waver  when  I  walk 
Along  the  crowded  thoroughfares, 
And  some  leer  in  my  eyes,  and  talk 
Of  dullness,  when  I  see  in  theirs — 
Like  fishes'  eyes,  alive  or  dead — 
But  surfaces  of  vacancy — 
Blank  disks  that  never  seem  to  see, 
But  glint  and  glow  and  glare  instead. 

201 


THE    BAN 


III 


The  ragged  shawl  I  wear  is  wet 
With  driving,  dripping  rains,  and  yet 
It  seems  a  royal  raiment,  where, 
Through  twisted  torrents  of  my  hair, 
I  see  rare  gems  that  gleam  and  shine 
Like  jewels  in  a  stream  of  wine; 
The  gaping  shoes  that  clothe  my  feet 
Are  golden  sandals,  and  the  shrine 
Where«courtiers  grovel  and  repeat 
Vain  prayers,  and  where  in  joy  thereat, 
A  fair  Prince  doffs  his  plumed  hat, 
And  kneels,  and  names  me  all  things  sweet. 


IV 


Sometimes  the  sun  shines,  and  the  lull 
Of  winter  noon  is  like  a  tune 
The  stars  might  twinkle  to  the  moon 
If  night  were  white  and  beautiful — 
For  when  the  clangor  of  the  town, 
And  strife  of  traffic  softens  down, 
The  wakeful  hunger  that  I  nurse, 
In  listening,  forgets  to  curse, 
Until — Ah,  joy!  with  drooping  head 
I  drowse,  and  dream  that  I  am  dead 
And  buried  safe  beyond  their  eyes 
Who  either  pity  or  despise. 


202 


ECCENTRIC  MR.  CLARK 


ECCENTRIC  MR.  CLARK 

ALL  who  knew  Mr.  Clark  intimately,  casually, 
or  by  sight  alone,  smiled  always,  meeting  him, 
and  thought,  "What  an  odd  man  he  is!"  Not 
that  there  was  anything  extremely  or  ridiculously 
obtrusive  in  Mr.  Clark's  peculiarities,  either  of 
feature,  dress,  or  deportment,  by  which  a  graded 
estimate  of  his  really  quaint  character  might  be 
aptly  defined ;  but  rather,  perhaps,  it  was  the 
curious  combination  of  all  these  things  that  had 
gained  for  Mr.  Clark  the  transient  celebrity  of  be 
ing  a  very  eccentric  man. 

And  Mr.  Clark,  of  all  the  odd  inhabitants  of 
the  busy  metropolis  in  which  he  lived,  seemed 
least  conscious  of  the  fact  of  his  local  prominence. 
True  it  was  that  when  familiarly  addressed  as 
"Clark,  old  boy,"  by  sportive  individuals  he  never 
recollected  having  seen  before,  he  would  often 
times  stare  blankly  in  return,  and  with  evident 
embarrassment;  but  as  these  actions  may  have 
been  attributable  to  weak  eyes,  or  to  the  confusion 
consequent  upon  being  publicly  recognized  by  the 
quondam  associates  of  bacchanalian  hours,  the  sug- 
205 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

gestive  facts  only  served  to  throw  his  eccentricities 
in  new  relief. 

And,  in  the  minds  of  many,  that  Mr.  Clark  was 
somewhat  given  to  dissipation,  there  was  but  little 
doubt;  for,  although  in  no  way,  and  at  no  time, 
derelict  in  the  rigid  duties  imposed  upon  him  as  an 
accountant  in  a  wholesale  liquor  house  on  South 
John  Street,  a  grand  majority  of  friends  had  long 
ago  conceded  that  a  certain  puffiness  of  flesh  and 
a  soiled-like  pallor  of  complexion  were  in  no  wise 
the  legitimate  result  of  over-application  simply  in 
the  counting-room  of  the  establishment  in  which 
he  found  employment ;  but  as  to  the  complicity  of 
Mr.  Clark's  direct  associates  in  this  belief,  it  is 
only  justice  to  the  gentleman  to  state  that  by  them 
he  was  exonerated  beyond  all  such  suspicion,  from 
the  gray-haired  senior  of  the  firm,  down  to  the 
pink-nosed  porter  of  the  warerooms,  who,  upon 
every  available  occasion,  would  point  out  the  ec 
centric  Mr.  Clark  as  "the  on'y  man  in  the  biznez 
'at  never  jsunk  a  'thief  er  drunk  a  drop  o'  'goods' 
o'  any  kind,  under  no  consideration!" 

And  Mr.  Clark  himself,  when  playfully  ap 
proached  upon  the  subject,  would  quietly  assert 
that  never,  under  any  circumstances,  had  the  taste 
oi  intoxicating  liquors  passed  his  lips,  though  at 
such  asseverations  it  was  a  noticeable  fact  that 
Mr.  Clark's  complexion  invariably  grew  more  sul- 
206 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

try  than  its  wont,  and  that  his  eyes,  forever  moist, 
grew  dewier,  and  that  his  lips  and  tongue  would 
seem  covertly  entering  upon  some  lush  conspiracy, 
which  in  its  incipiency  he  would  be  forced  to 
smother  with  his  hastily  drawn  handkerchief. 
Then  the  eccentric  Mr.  Clark  would  laugh  nerv 
ously,  and,  pouncing  on  some  subject  so  vividly 
unlike  the  one  just  previous  as  to  daze  the  listener, 
he  would  ripple  ahead  with  a  tide  of  eloquence 
that  positively  overflowed  and  washed  away  all  re 
membrance  of  the  opening  topic. 

In  point  of  age  Mr.  Clark  might  have  been 
thirty,  thirty-five,  or  even  forty  years,  were  one  to 
venture  an  opinion  solely  guided  by  outward  ap 
pearances  and  under  certain  circumstances  and 
surroundings.  As,  for  example,  when,  a  dozen 
years  ago,  the  writer  of  this  sketch  rode  twenty 
miles  in  a  freight-caboose  with  Mr.  Clark  as  the 
only  other  passenger,  he  seemed  in  age  at  first  not 
less  than  thirty-five;  but  upon  opening  a  conver 
sation  with  him,  in  which  he  joined  with  wonder 
ful  vivacity,  a  nearer  view,  and  a  prolonged  and 
studious  one  as  well,  revealed  the  rather  curious 
fact  that,  at  the  very  limit  of  all  allowable  sup 
position,  his  age  could  not  possibly  have  exceeded 
twenty-five.  What  it  was  in  the  man  that  struck 
me  as  eccentric  at  that  time  I  have  never  been 
wholly  able  to  define,  but  I  recall  accurately  the 
207 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

most  trivial  occurrences  of  our  meeting  and  the 
very  subject-matter  of  our  conversation.  I  even 
remember  the  very  words  in  which  he  declined  a 
drink  from  my  travelling-flask — for  "It's  a  raw 
day,"  I  said,  byway  of  gratuitous  excuse  for  offer 
ing  it.  "Yes,"  he  said,  smilingly  motioning  the 
temptation  aside;  "it  is  a  raw  day;  but  you're 
rather  young  in  years  to  be  doctoring  the  weather 
— at  least  you'd  better  change  the  treatment — 
they'll  all  be  raw  days  for  you  after  a  while!"  I 
confess  that  I  even  felt  an  inward  pity  for  the  man 
as  I  laughingly  drained  his  health  and  returned  the 
flask  to  my  valise.  But  when  I  asked  him,  ten 
minutes  later,  the  nature  of  the  business  in  which 
he  was  engaged,  and  he  handed  me,  in  response 
and  without  comment,  the  card  of  a  wholesale 
liquor  house,  with  his  own  name  in  crimson  letters 
struck  diagonally  across  the  surface,  I  winked 
naively  to  myself  and  thought  "Ah-ha!"  And, 
as  if  reading  my  very  musings,  he  said:  "Why, 
certainly,  I  carry  a  full  line  of  samples ;  but,  my 
dear  young  friend,  don't  imagine  for  a  minute  that 
I  refuse  your  brand  on  that  account.  You  can 
rest  assured  that  I  have  nothing  better  in  my  cases. 
Whiskey  is  whiskey  wherever  it  is  found,  and 
there  is  no  'best'  whiskey — not  in  all  the  world!" 
Truly,  I  thought,  this  is  an  odd  source  for  the 
emanation  of  temperance  sentiments — then  said 
208 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

aloud:  "And  yet  you  engage  in  a  business  you 
dislike !  Traffic  in  an  article  that  you  yourself  con 
demn!  Do  I  understand  you?" 

"Might  there  not  be  such  a  thing,"  he  said, 
quietly,  "as  inheriting  a  business — the  same  as  in 
heriting  an  appetite  ?  However,  one  advances  by 
gradations:  I  shall  sell  no  more.  This  is  my  last 
trip  on  the  road  in  that  capacity :  I  am  coming  in 
now  to  take  charge  of  the  firm's  books.  Would 
be  glad  to  have  you  call  on  me  any  time  you're  in 
the  city.  Good-bye."  And,  as  he  swung  off  the 
slowly  moving  train,  now  entering  the  city,  and  I 
stood  watching  him  from  the  open  door  of  the 
caboose  as  he  rapidly  walked  down  a  suburban 
street,  I  was  positive  his  gait  was  anything  but 
steady — that  the  step — the  figure — the  whole  air  of 
the  man  was  that  of  one  then  laboring  under  the 
effects  of  partial  intoxication. 

I  have  always  liked  peculiar  people ;  no  matter 
where  I  met  them,  no  matter  who  they  were;  if 
once  impressed  with  an  eccentricity  of  character 
which  I  have  reason  to  believe  purely  unaffected, 
I  never  quite  forget  the  person,  name  or  place  of 
our  first  meeting,  or  where  the  interesting  party 
may  be  found  again.  And  so  it  was  in  the  cus 
tomary  order  of  things  that,  during  hasty  visits  to 
the  city,  I  often  called  on  the  eccentric  Mr.  Clark, 
and,  as  he  had  promised  upon  our  first  acquaint- 

209 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

ance,  he  seemed  always  glad  to  see  and  welcome 
me  in  his  new  office.  The  more  I  knew  of  him 
the  more  I  liked  him,  but  I  think  I  never  fully  un 
derstood  him.  No  one  seemed  to  know  him  quite 
so  well  as  that. 

Once  I  had  a  little  private  talk  regarding  him 
with  the  senior  of  the  firm  for  which  he  worked. 
Mr.  Clark,  just  prior  to  my  call,  had  gone  to 
lunch — would  be  back  in  half  an  hour.  Would  I 
wait  there  in  the  office  until  his  return?  Certainly. 
And  the  chatty  senior  entertained  me : — Queer  fel 
low — Mr.  Clark! — as  his  father  was  before  him. 
Used  to  be  a  member  of  the  firm — his  father;  in 
fact,  founded  the  business — made  a  fortune  at  it — 
failed,  for  an  unfortunate  reason,  and  went  "up 
the  flume."  Paid  every  dollar  that  he  owed,  how 
ever,  sacrificing  the  very  home  that  sheltered  his 
wife  and  children — but  never  rallied.  He  had 
quite  a  family,  then?  Oh,  yes;  had  a  family — 
not  a  large  one,  but  a  bright  one — only  they  all 
seemed  more  or  less  unfortunate.  The  father  was 
unfortunate — very ;  and  died  so,  leaving  his  wife 
and  two  boys — the  older  son  much  like  the  father 
— splendid  business  capacities,  but  lacked  will — 
couldn't  resist  some  things — even  weaker  than  the 
father  in  that  regard,  and  died  at  half  his  age. 
But  the  younger  brother — our  Mr.  Clark — re 
mained,  and  he  was  sterling — "straight  goods"  in 
210 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

all  respects.  Lived  with  his  mother — was  her  sole 
support.  A  proud  woman,  Mrs.  Clark — a  proud 
woman,  with  a  broken  spirit — withdrawn  entirely 
from  the  world,  and  had  been  so  for  years  and  years. 
The  Clarks,  as  had  been  mentioned,  were  all  pe 
culiar — even  the  younger  Mr.  Clark,  our  friend, 
I  had  doubtless  noticed  was  an  odd  genius,  but  he 
had  stamina — something  solid  about  him,  for  all 
his  eccentricities  —  could  be  relied  upon.  Had 
been  with  the  house  there  since  a  boy  of  twelve — 
took  him  for  the  father's  sake ;  had  never  missed 
a  day's  time  in  any  line  of  work  that  ever  had  been 
given  in  his  charge — was  weakly-looking,  too. 
Had  worked  his  way  from  the  cellar  up — from  the 
least  pay  to  the  highest — had  saved  enough  to  buy 
and  pay  for  a  comfortable  house  for  his  mother 
and  himself,  and,  still  a  lad,  maintained  the  ex 
pense  of  companion,  attendant  and  maid-servant 
for  the  mother.  Yet,  with  all  this  burden  on  his 
shoulders,  the  boy  had  worried  through  some  way, 
with  a  jolly  smile  and  a  good  word  for  every  one. 
"A  boy,  sir,"  the  enthusiastic  senior  concluded — 
"a  boy,  sir,  that  never  was  a  boy,  and  never  had 
a  taste  of  genuine  boyhood  in  his  life — no  more 
than  he  ever  took  a  taste  of  whiskey,  and  you 
couldn't  get  that  in  him  with  a. funnel!" 

At  this  juncture  Mr.  Clark  himself  appeared, 
and  in  a  particularly  happy  frame  of  mind.     For 

211 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

an  hour  the  delighted  senior  and  myself  sat  laugh 
ing  at  the  fellow's  quaint  conceits  and  witty  say 
ings,  the  conversation  at  last  breaking  up  with  an 
abrupt  proposition  from  Mr.  Clark  that  I  remain 
in  the  city  overnight  and  accompany  him  to  the 
theatre,  an  invitation  I  rather  eagerly  accepted. 
Mr.  Clark,  thanking  me,  and  pivoting  himself 
around  on  his  high  stool,  with  a  mechanical  "Good 
afternoon!"  was  at  once  submerged  in  his  books, 
while  the  senior,  following  me  out  and  stepping 
into  a  carnage  that  stood  waiting  for  him  at  the 
curb,  waved  me  adieu,  and  was  driven  away.  I 
turned  my  steps  up  street,  but  remembering  that 
my  friend  had  fixed  no  place  to  meet  me  in  the 
evening,  I  stepped  back  into  the  store-room  and 
again  pushed  open  the  glass  door  of  the  office. 

Mr.  Clark  still  sat  on  the  high  stool  at  his  desk, 
his  back  toward  the  door,  and  his  ledger  spread 
out  before  him. 

"Mr.  Clark!"  I  called. 

He  made  no  answer. 

"Mr.  Clark!"  I  called  again,  in  an  elevated 
key. 

He  did  not  stir. 

I  paused  a  moment,  then  went  over  to  him,  let 
ting  my  hand  drop  lightly  on  his  arm. 

Still  no  response.  I  only  felt  the  shoulder  heave, 
as  with  a  long-drawn  quavering  sigh,  then  heard 
212 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

the  regular  though  labored  breathing  of  a  weary 
man  that  slept. 

I  had  not  the  heart  to  waken  him ;  but,  lifting 
the  still  moistened  pen  from  his  unconscious  fin 
gers,  I  wrote  where  I  might  be  found  at  eight  that 
evening,  folded  and  addressed  the  note,  and,  lay 
ing  it  on  the  open  page  before  him,  turned  quietly 
away. 

"Poor  man!"  I  mused,  compassionately,  with 
a  touch  of  youthful  sentiment  affecting  me. — "Poor 
man!  Working  himself  into  his  very  grave,  and 
with  never  a  sign  or  murmur  of  complaint — worn 
and  weighed  down  with  the  burden  of  his  work, 
and  yet  with  a  nobleness  of  spirit  and  resolve  that 
still  conceals  behind  glad  smiles  and  laughing 
words  the  cares  that  lie  so  heavily  upon  him!" 

The  long  afternoon  went  by  at  last,  and  evening 
came;  and,  as  promptly  as  my  note  requested,  the 
jovial  Mr.  Clark  appeared,  laughing  heartily,  as 
we  walked  off  down  the  street,  at  my  explanation 
of  the  reason  I  had  written  my  desires  instead  of 
verbally  addressing  him  ;  and  laughing  still  louder 
when  I  told  him  of  my  fears  that  he  was  over 
working  himself. 

"Oh,   no,   my   friend,"    he    answered,    gayly; 

"there's  no  occasion  for  anxiety  on  that  account. 

— But  the  fact   is,  old  man,"  he  went  on,  half 

apologetically,  "the  fact  is,  I  haven't  been  so  over- 

213 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

worked,  of  late,  as  over-wakeful.  There's  some 
thing  in  the  night,  I  think,  that  does  it.  Do  you 
know  that  the  night  is  a  great  mystery  to  me — a 
great  mystery !  And  it  seems  to  be  growing  on 
me  all  the  time.  There's  the  trouble.  The  night 
to  me  is  like  some  vast,  incomprehensible  being. 
When  I  write  the  name  'night'  I  instinctively  write 
it  with  a  capital.  And  I  like  my  nights  deep,  and 
dark  and  swarthy,  don't  you  know.  Now  some 
like  clear  and  starry  nights,  but  they're  too  pale 
for  me — too  weak  and  fragile  altogether !  They're 
popular  with  the  masses,  of  course,  these  blue-eyed, 
golden-haired,  'moonlight-on-the-lake'  nights  ;  but, 
someway,  I  don't  'stand  in'  with  them.  My  fa 
vorite  night  is  the  pronounced  brunette — the  darker 
the  better.  To-night  is  one  of  my  kind,  and  she's 
growing  more  and  more  like  it  all  the  time.  If  it 
were  not  for  depriving  you  of  the  theatre,  I'd 
rather  just  drift  off  now  in  the  deepening  gloom 
till  swallowed  up  in  it — lost  utterly.  Come  with 
me,  anyhow!" 

"Gladly,"  I  answered,  catching  something  of 
his  own  enthusiasm;  "I  myself  prefer  it  to  the 
play." 

"I  heartily  congratulate  you  on  your  taste,"  he 

said,  diving  violently  for  my  hand  and  wringing 

it.     "Oh,    it's  going   to  be   grimly  glorious! — a 

depth   of  darkness  one   can  wade  out  into,  and 

214 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

knead  it  in  his  hands  like  dough ! ' '  And  he  laughed, 
himself,  at  this  grotesque  conceit. 

And  so  we  walked — for  hours.  Our  talk — or, 
rather,  my  friend's  talk — lulled  and  soothed  at  last 
into  a  calmer  flow,  almost  solemn  in  its  tone,  and 
yet  fretted  with  an  occasional  wildness  of  utter 
ance  and  expression. 

Half  consciously  I  had  been  led  by  my  com 
panion,  who  for  an  hour  had  been  drawing  closer 
to  me  as  we  walked.  His  arm,  thrust  through  my 
own,  clung  almost  affectionately.  We  were  now 
in  some  strange  suburb  of  the  city,  evidently,  too, 
in  a  low  quarter,  for  from  the  windows  of  such 
business  rooms  and  shops  as  bore  any  evidence  of 
respectability  the  lights  had  been  turned  out  and 
the  doors  locked  for  the  night.  Only  a  gruesome 
green  light  was  blazing  in  a  little  drug-store  just 
opposite,  while  at  our  left,  as  we  turned  the  corner, 
a  tumble-down  saloon  sent  out  upon  the  night  a 
mingled  sound  of  clicking  billiard-balls,  discord 
ant  voices,  the  harsher  raspings  of  a  violin,  to 
gether  with  the  sullen  plunkings  of  a  banjo. 

"I  must  leave  you  here  for  a  minute,"  said  my 
friend,  abruptly  breaking  a  long  silence,  and  loos 
ening  my  arm.  "The  druggist  over  there  is  a 
patron  of  our  house,  and  I  am  reminded  of  a  little 
business  I  have  with  him.  He  is  about  closing, 
too,  and  I'll  see  him  now,  as  I  may  not  be  down 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

this  way  again  soon.  No ;  you  wait  here  for  me 
— right  here,"  and  he  playfully  but  firmly  pushed 
me  back,  ran  across  the  street,  and  entered  the 
store.  Through  the  open  door  I  saw  him  shake 
hands  with  the  man  that  stood  behind  the  counter, 
and  stand  talking  in  the  same  position  for  some 
minutes — both  still  clasping  hands,  as  it  seemed ; 
but  as  I  mechanically  bent  with  closer  scrutiny, 
the  druggist  seemed  to  be  examining  the  hand  of 
Mr.  Clark  and  working  at  it,  as  though  picking  at 
a  splinter  in  the  palm — I  could  not  quite  deter 
mine  what  was  being  done,  for  a  glass  show-case 
blurred  an  otherwise  clear  view  of  the  arms  of 
both  from  the  elbows  down.  Then  they  came 
forward.  Mr.  Clark  arranging  his  cuffs,  and  the 
druggist  wrapping  up  some  minute  article  he  took 
from  an  upper  show-case,  and  handing  it  to  my 
friend,  who  placed  it  in  the  pocket  of  his  vest  and 
turned  away.  At  this  moment  my  attention  was 
withdrawn  by  an  extra  tumult  of  jeers  and  harsh 
laughter  in  the  saloon,  from  the  door  of  which, 
even  as  my  friend  turned  from  the  door  opposite, 
a  drunken  woman  reeled,  and,  staggering  round 
the  corner  as  my  friend  came  up,  fell  violently 
forward  on  the  pavement,  not  ten  steps  in  our  ad 
vance.  Instinctively,  we  both  sprang  to  her  aid, 
and,  bending  over  the  senseless  figure,  peered 
curiously  at  the  bruised  and  bleeding  features. 
216 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

My  friend  was  trembling  with  excitement.  He 
clutched  wildly  at  the  limp  form,  trying,  but 
vainly,  to  lift  the  woman  to  her  feet.  "Why  don't 
you  take  hold  of  her?"  he  whispered,  hoarsely. 
"Help  me  with  her — quick!  quick!  Lift  her  up!" 
I  obeyed  without  a  word,  though  with  a  shudder 
of  aversion  as  a  drop  of  hot  blood  stung  me  on 
the  hand. 

"Now  draw  her  arm  about  your  shoulder — this 
way — and  hold  it  so!  And  now  your  other  arm 
around  her  waist — quick,  man,  quick,  as  you  your 
self  will  want  God's  arm  about  you  when  you 
fail!  Now,  come!"  And  with  no  other  word 
we  hurried  with  our  burden  up  the  empty  darkness 
of  the  street. 

I  was  utterly  bewildered  with  it  all,  but  some 
thing  kept  me  silent.  And  so  we  hurried  on,  and 
on,  and  on,  our  course  directed  by  my  now  wholly 
reticent  companion.  Where  he  was  going,  what 
his  purpose  was,  I  could  but  vaguely  surmise.  I 
only  recognized  that  his  intentions  were  humane, 
which  fact  was  emphasized  by  the  extreme  caution 
he  took  to  avoid  the  two  or  three  late  pedestrians 
that  passed  us  on  our  way  as  we  stood  crowded  in 
concealment — once  behind  a  low  shed,  once  in  an 
entry-way;  and  once,  at  the  distant  rattle  of  a 
police  whistle,  we  hurried  through  the  blackness 
of  a  narrow  alley  into  the  silent  street  beyond. 
217 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

And  on  up  this  we  passed,  until  at  last  we  paused 
at  the  gateway  of  a  cottage  on  our  left.  On  to 
the  door  of  that  we  went,  my  friend  first  violently 
jerking  the  bell,  then  opening  the  door  with  a 
night-key,  and  with  me  lifting  the  still  senseless 
woman  through  the  hall  into  a  dimly  lighted  room 
upon  the  right,  and  laying  her  upon  a  clean  white 
bed  that  glimmered  in  the  corner.  He  reached 
and  turned  the  gas  on  in  a  flaring  jet,  and  as  he 
did  so,  "This  is  my  home,"  he  whispered,  "and 
this  woman  is — my  mother!"  He  flung  himself 
upon  his  knees  beside  her  as  he  spoke.  He  laid 
his  quivering  lips  against  the  white  hair  and  the 
ruddy  wound  upon  the  brow ;  then  dappled  with 
his  kisses  the  pale  face,  and  stroked  and  petted 
and  caressed  the  faded  hands.  "O  God!"  he 
moaned,  "if  I  might  only  weep!" 

The  steps  of  some  one  coming  down  the  stair 
aroused  him.  He  stepped  quickly  to  the  door, 
and  threw  it  open.  It  was  a  woman-servant.  He 
simply  pointed  to  the  form  upon  the  bed. 

"Oh,  sir!"  exclaimed  the  frightened  woman, 
"what  has  happened?  What  has  happened  to  my 
poor,  dear  mistress?" 

"Why  did  you  let  her  leave  the  house?" 

"She  sent  me  away,  sir.  I  never  dreamed  that 
she  was  going  out  again.  She  told  me  she  was 
very  sleepy  and  wanted  to  retire,  and  I  helped  her 
218 


ECCENTRIC    MR.   CLARK 

to  undress  before  I  went.  But  she  ain't  bad  hurt, 
is  she?"  she  continued,  stooping  over  the  still 
figure  and  tenderly  smoothing  back  the  dishevelled 
hair. — "It's  only  the  cheek  bruised  and  the  fore 
head  cut  a  little — it's  the  blood  that  makes  it  look 
like  a  bad  hurt.  See,  when  I  bathe  it,  it  is  not  a 
bad  hurt,  sir.  She's  just  been — she's  just  worn 
out,  poor  thing — and  she's  asleep — that's  all." 

He  made  no  answer  to  the  woman's  speech,  but 
turned  toward  me.  "Five  doors  from  here,"  he 
said,  "and  to  your  left  as  you  go  out,  you  will  find 
the  residence  of  Dr.  Worrel.  Go  to  him  for  me, 
and  tell  him  he  is  wanted  here  at  once.  Tell  him 
my  mother  is  much  worse.  He  will  understand. 
I  would  go  myself,  but  must  see  about  arranging 
for  your  comfort  -upon  your  return,  for  you  will 
not  leave  me  till  broad  daylight — you  must  not!" 
I  bowed  in  silent  acceptance  of  his  wishes,  and 
turned  upon  my  errand. 

Fortunately,  the  doctor  was  at  home,  and  returned 
at  once  with  me  to  my  friend,  where,  after  a  care 
ful  examination  of  his  patient,  he  assured  the 
anxious  son  that  the  wounds  were  only  slight,  and 
that  her  unconscious  condition  was  simply  "the 
result  of  over-stimulation,  perhaps,"  as  he  deli 
cately  put  it.  She  would  doubtless  waken  in  her 
usual  rational  state — an  occurrence  really  more  to 
be  feared  than  desired,  since  her  peculiar  sensi- 
219 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

tiveness  might  feel  too  keenly  the  unfortunate  hap 
pening.  "Anyway,"  he  continued,  "I  will  call 
early  in  the  morning,  and,  in  the  event  of  her 
awakening  before  that  time,  I  will  leave  a  sedative 
with  Mary,  with  directions  she  will  attend.  She 
will  remain  here  at  her  side.  And  as  to  yourself, 
Mr.  Clark,"  the  doctor  went  on,  in  an  anxious 
tone,  as  he  marked  the  haggard  face  and  hollow 
eyes,  "I  insist  that  you  retire.  You  must  rest, 
sir — worrying  for  the  past  week  as  you  have  been 
doing  is  telling  on  you  painfully.  You  need  rest 
— and  you  must  take  it." 

"And  I  will,"  said  Mr.  Clark,  submissively. 
Stooping  again,  he  clasped  the  sleeping  face  be 
tween  his  hands  and  kissed  it  tenderly.  "Good 
night!"  I  heard  him  whisper — "good  night — good 
night!"  He  turned,  and,  motioning  for  me  to  fol 
low,  opened  the  door — "Doctor,  good  night !  Good 
night,  Mary!" 

He  led  the  way  to  his  own  room  up-stairs.  "And 
now,  my  friend,"  he  said,  as  he  waved  me  to  an 
easy-chair,  "I  have  but  two  other  favors  to  ask  of 
you :  The  first  is,  that  you  talk  to  me,  or  read  to 
me,  or  tell  me  fairy  tales,  or  riddles — anything,  so 
that  you  keep  it  up  incessantly,  and  never  leave  off 
till  you  find  me  fast  asleep.  Then  in  the  next 
room  you  will  find  a  comfortable  bed.  Leave  me 
sleeping  here,  and  you  sleep  there.  And  the  sec- 
220 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

ond  favor,"  he  continued,  with  a  slow  smile  and 
an  affected  air  of  deliberation — "oh,  well,  I'll 
not  ask  the  second  favor  of  you  now.  I'll  keep  it 
for  you  till  to-morrow."  And  as  he  turned  laugh 
ingly  away  and  paced  three  or  four  times  across  the 
room,  in  his  step,  his  gait,  the  general  carriage  of  the 
figure,  I  was  curiously  reminded  of  the  time,  years 
before,  that  I  had  watched  him  from  the  door  of  the 
caboose,  as  he  walked  up  the  suburban  street  till  the 
movement  of  the  train  had  hidden  him  from  view. 

"Well,  what  will  you  do?"  he  asked,  as  he 
wheeled  a  cosey-cushioned  lounge  close  beside  my 
chair,  and,  removing  his  coat,  flung  himself  lan 
guidly  down. — "Will  you  talk  or  read  to  me?" 

"I  will  read,"  I  said,  as  I  picked  up  a  book  to 
begin  my  vigil. 

"Hold  just  a  minute,  then,"  he  said,  drawing 
a  card  and  pencil  from  his  vest. — "I  may  want  to 
jot  down  a  note  or  two. — Now,  go  ahead." 

I  had  been  reading  in  a  low  voice  steadily  for 
perhaps  an  hour,  my  companion  never  stirring 
from  his  first  position,  but  although  my  eyes  were 
never  lifted  from  the  book,  I  knew  by  the  occa 
sional  sound  of  his  pencil  that  he  had  not  yet 
dropped  asleep.  And  so,  without  a  pause,  I  read 
monotonously  on.  At  last  he  turned  heavily.  I 
paused.  With  his  eyes  closed  he  groped  his  hand 
across  my  knees  and  grasped  my  own.  "Go  on 
221 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

with  the  reading,"  he  said,  drowsily. — "Guess 
I'm  going  to  sleep  now — but  you  go  right  on  with 
the  story.  Good  night!"  His  hand  fumbled 
lingeringly  a  moment,  then  was  withdrawn  and 
folded  with  the  other  on  his  breast. 

I  read  on  in  a  lower  tone  an  hour  longer,  then 
paused  again  to  look  at  my  companion.  He  was 
sleeping  heavily,  and  although  the  features  in  their 
repose  appeared  unusually  pale,  a  wholesome  per 
spiration,  as  it  seemed,  pervaded  all  the  face, 
while  the  breathing,  though  labored,  was  regular. 
I  bent  above  him  to  lower  the  pillow  for  his  head, 
and  the  movement  half  aroused  him,  as  I  thought 
at  first,  for  he  muttered  something  as  though  im 
patiently  ;  but  listening  to  catch  his  mutterings,  I 
knew  that  he  was  dreaming.  "It's  what  killed 
father,"  I  heard  him  say.  "And  it's  what  killed 
Tom,"  he  went  on,  in  a  smothered  voice  ;  "killed 
both — killed  both !  It  sha'n't  kill  me;  I  swore  it. 
I  could  bottle  it — case  after  case — and  never  touch 
a  drop.  If  you  never  take  the  first  drink,  you'll 
never  want  it.  Mother  taught  me  that.  What 
made  her  ever  take  the  first?  Mother!  mother! 
When  I  get  to  be  a  man,  I'll  buy  her  all  the  fine 
things  she  used  to  have  when  father  was  alive. 
Maybe  I  can  buy  back  the  old  home,  with  the  roses 
up  the  walk  and  the  sunshine  slanting  in  the  hall." 

And  so  the  sleeper  murmured  on.     Sometimes 

222 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

the  voice  was  thick  and  discordant,  sometimes  low 
and  clear  and  tuneful  as  a  child's.  "Never  touch 
whiskey!"  he  went  on,  almost  harshly.  "Never 
— never !  never !  Drop  in  the  street  first.  I  did. 
The  doctor  will  come  then,  and  he  knows  what 
you  want.  Not  whiskey. — Medicine;  the  kind 
that  makes  you  warm  again — makes  you  want  to 
live;  but  don't  ever  dare  touch  whiskey.  Let 
other  people  drink  it  if  they  want  it.  Sell  it  to 
them  ;  they'll  get  it  anyhow  ;  but  don't  you  touch 
it!  It  killed  your  father,  it  killed  Tom,  and — oh ! — 
Mother!  mother!  mother!"  Tears  actually  teemed 
from  underneath  the  sleeper's  lids,  and  glittered 
down  the  pallid  and  distorted  features.  "There's  a 
medicine  that's  good  for  you  when  you  want  whis 
key,"  he  went  on. — "When  you  are  weak,  and 
everybody  else  is  strong — and  always  when  the 
flagstones  give  way  beneath  your  feet,  and  the  long 
street  undulates  and  wavers  as  you  walk;  why, 
that's  a  sign  for  you  to  take  that  medicine — and 
take  it  quick!  Oh,  it  will  warm  you  till  the  little 
pale-blue  streaks  in  your  white  hands  will  bulge 
out  again  with  tingling  blood,  and  it  will  start  up 
from  its  stagnant  pools  and  leap  from  vein  to  vein 
till  it  reaches  your  being's  furthest  height  and 
droops  and  falls  and  folds  down  over  icy  brow  and 
face  like  a  soft  veil  moistened  with  pure  warmth. 
Ah!  it  is  so  deliriously  sweet  and  restful!" 
223 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

I  heard  a  moaning  in  the  room  below,  and  then 
steps  on  the  stairs,  and  a  tapping  at  the  door.  It 
was  Mary.  Mrs.  Clark  had  awakened  and  was 
crying  for  her  son.  "But  we  must  not  waken 
him,"  I  said.  "Give  Mrs.  Clark  the  medicine  the 
doctor  left  for  her — that  will  quiet  her." 

"But  she  won't  take  it,  sir.  She  won't  do  any 
thing  at  all  for  me — and  if  Mr.  Clark  could  only 
come  to  her,  for  just  a  minute,  she  would — " 

The  woman's  speech  was  broken  by  a  shrill  cry 
in  the  hall,  and  then  the  thud  of  naked  feet  on  the 
stairway.  "I  want  my  boy — my  boy!"  wailed 
the  hysterical  woman  from  without. 

"Go  to  your  mistress — quick,"  I  said  sternly, 
pushing  the  maid  from  the  room. — "Take  her 
back ;  I  will  come  down  to  your  assistance  in  a 
moment."  Then  I  turned  hastily  to  see  if  the 
sleeper  had  been  disturbed  by  the  woman's  cries; 
but  all  was  peaceful  with  him  yet ;  and  so,  throw 
ing  a  coverlet  over  him,  I  drew  the  door  to  silently 
and  went  below. 

I  found  the  wretched  mother  in  an  almost  fren 
zied  state,  and  gathering  in  a  violence  that  alarmed 
me  to  that  extent  I  thought  it  best  to  again  sum 
mon  the  physician ;  and  bidding  the  servant  not 
to  leave  her  for  an  instant,  I  hurried  for  the  help 
so  badly  needed.  This  time  the  doctor  was  long 
delayed,  although  he  joined  me  with  all  possible 
224 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

haste,  and  with  all  speed  accompanied  me  back 
to  the  unhappy  home.  Entering  the  door,  our 
ears  were  greeted  with  a  shriek  that  came  piercing 
down  the  hall  till  the  very  echoes  shuddered  as 
with  fear.  It  was  the  patient's  voice  shrilling 
from  the  sleeper's  room  up-stairs: — "O  God! 
My  boy!  my  boy!  I  want  my  boy,  and  he  will 
not  waken  for  me!"  An  instant  later  we  were 
both  upon  the  scene. 

The  woman  in  her  frenzy  had  broken  from  the 
servant  to  find  her  son.  And  she  had  found  him. 

She  had  wound  her  arms  about  him,  and  had 
dragged  his  still  sleeping  form  upon  the  floor. 
He  would  not  waken,  even  though  she  gripped 
him  to  her  heart  and  shrieked  her  very  soul  out  in 
his  ears.  He  would  not  waken.  The  face,  though 
whiter  than  her  own,  betokened  only  utter  rest  and 
peace.  We  drew  her,  limp  and  voiceless,  from 
his  side.  "We  are  too  late,"  the  doctor  whispered, 
lifting  with  his  finger  one  of  the  closed  lids,  and 
letting  it  drop  to  again. — "See  here!"  He  had 
been  feeling  at  the  wrist;  and,  as  he  spoke,  he 
slipped  the  sleeve  up,  baring  the  sleeper's  arm. 
From  wrist  to  elbow  it  was  livid  purple,  and  pitted 
and  scarred  with  minute  wounds — some  scarcely 
sealed  as  yet  with  clotted  blood. 

"In  heaven's  name,  what  does  it  all  mean?"  I 
asked. 

225 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 

«\ 

"Morphine,"  said  the  doctor,  "and  the  hypo 
dermic.  And  here,"  he  exclaimed,  lifting  the 
other  hand — "here  is  a  folded  card  with  your  name 
at  the  top." 

I  snatched  it  from  him,  and  I  read,  written  in 
faint  but  rounded  characters : 

"I  like  to  hear  your  voice.  It  sounds  kind.  It 
is  like  a  far-off  tune.  To  drop  asleep,  though,  as 
I  am  doing  now,  is  sweeter  music — but  read  on. 
— I  have  taken  something  to  make  me  sleep,  and 
by  mistake  I  have  taken  too  much ;  but  you  will 
read  right  on.  Now,  mind  you,  this  is  not  suicide, 
as  God  listens  to  the  whisper  of  this  pencil  as  I 
write !  I  did  it  by  mistake.  For  years  and  years 
I  have  taken  the  same  thing.  This  time  I  took 
too  much — much  more  than  I  meant  to — but  I  am 
glad.  This  is  the  second  favor  I  would  ask :  Go 
to  my  employers  to-morrow,  show  them  this  hand 
writing,  and  say  I  know  for  my  sake  they  will  take 
charge  of  my  affairs  and  administer  all  my  estate 
in  the  best  way  suited  to  my  mother's  needs. 
Good-bye,  my  friend — I  can  only  say  'good  night' 
to  you  when  I  shall  take  your  hand  an  instant  later 
and  turn  away  forever." 

Through  tears  I  read  it  all,  and  ending  with  his 

name  in  full,  I  turned  and  looked  down  on  the 

face  of  this  man  that  I  had  learned  to  love,  and 

the  full  measure  of  his  needed  rest  was  with  him ; 

226 


ECCENTRIC    MR.  CLARK 


and  the  rainy  day  that  glowered  and  drabbled  at 
the  eastern  windows  of  the  room  was  as  drearily 
stared  back  at  by  a  hopeless  woman's  dull,  de 
mented  eyes. 


227 


THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

His  advent  in  our  little  country  town  was  at 
once  abrupt  and  novel.  Why  he  came,  when  he 
came,  or  how  he  came,  we  boys  never  knew.  My 
first  remembrance  of  him  is  of  his  sudden  appear 
ance  in  the  midst  of  a  game  of  "Ant'ny-over,"  in 
which  a  dozen  boys  besides  myself  were  most  en 
thusiastically  engaged.  The  scene  of  the  exciting 
contest  was  the  centre  of  the  main  street  of  the 
town,  the  elevation  over  which  we  tossed  the  ball 
being  the  skeleton  remains  of  a  grand  triumphal 
arch,  left  as  a  sort  of  cadaverous  reminder  of  some 
recent  political  demonstration.  Although  I  recall 
the  boy's  external  appearance  upon  that  occasion 
with  some  vagueness,  I  vividly  remember  that  his 
trousers  were  much  too  large  and  long,  and  that 
his  heavy,  flapping  coat  was  buttonless,  and  very 
badly  worn  and  damaged  at  the  sleeves  and  el 
bows.  I  remember,  too,  with  even  more  distinct 
ness,  the  hat  he  wore:  it  was  a  high,  silk,  bell- 
crowned  hat — a  man's  hat  and  a  veritable  "plug" 
— not  a  new  and  shiny  "plug,"  by  any  means, 
but  still  of  dignity  and  gloss  enough  to  furnish  a 
231 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

noticeable  contrast  to  the  other  appertainments  of 
its  wearer's  wardrobe.  In  fact,  it  was  through 
this  latter  article  of  dress  that  the  general  attention 
of  the  crowd  came  at  last  to  be  particularly  drawn 
to  its  unfortunate  possessor,  who,  evidently  di 
rected  by  an  old-time  instinct,  had  mechanically 
thrust  the  inverted  "castor"  under  a  falling  ball, 
and  the  ball,  being  made  of  yarn  wrapped  tightly 
over  a  green  walnut,  and  dropping  from  an  un 
common  height,  had  gone  through  the  hat  like  a 
round  shot. 

Naturally  enough,  much  merriment  was  occa 
sioned  by  the  singular  mishap,  and  the  victim  of 
the  odd  occurrence  seemed  himself  inclined  to 
join  in  the  boisterous  laughter  and  make  the  most 
of  his  ridiculous  misfortune.  He  pulled  the 
hat  back  over  his  tousled  head,  and  with  the 
flapping  crown  of  it  still  clinging  by  one  frayed 
hinge,  he  capered  into  a  grotesquely  executed  jig 
that  made  the  clamorous  crowd  about  him  howl 
again. 

"Wo!  what  a  hat!"  cried  Billy  Kinzey,  deri 
sively,  and  with  a  palpably  rancorous  twinge  of 
envy  in  his  heart ;  for  Billy  was  the  bad  boy  of 
our  town,  and  would  doubtless  have  enjoyed  the 
strange  boy's  sudden  notoriety  in  thus  being  able 
to  convert  disaster  into  positive  fun.  "Wo!  what 
a  hat!"  reiterated  Billy,  making  a  feint  to  knock 
232 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

it  from  the  boy's  head  as  the  still  capering  figure 
pirouetted  past  him. 

The  boy's  eye  caught  the  motion,  and  he  whirled 
suddenly  in  a  backward  course  and  danced  past 
his  rcviler  again,  this  time  much  nearer  than  be 
fore.  "Better  try  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  half- 
laughing  tone  that  no  one  heard  but  Billy  and 
myself.  He  was  out  of  range  in  an  instant,  still 
laughing  as  he  went. 

"Durn  him!"  said  Billy,  with  stifling  anger, 
clutching  his  fist  and  leaving  one  knuckle  pro 
truding  in  a  very  wicked-looking  manner. — "Durn 
him!  He  better  not  sass  me!  He's  afeared 
to  come  past  here  ag'in  and  say  that!  I'll  knock 
his  durn  ole  'stove-pipe'  in  the  middle  o'  nex' 
week!" 

"You  will,  hey?"  queried  a  revolving  voice,  as 
the  boy  twirled  past  again — this  time  so  near  that 
Billy  felt  his  taunting  breath  blown  in  his  face. 

"Yes,  I  'will,  hey'!"  said  Billy,  viciously;  and 
with  a  side-sweeping,  flat-handed  lick  that  sounded 
like  striking  a  rusty  sheet  of  tin,  the  crownless 
"plug"  went  spinning  into  the  gutter,  while,  as 
suddenly,  the  assaulted  little  stranger,  with  a  pe 
culiarly  pallid  smile  about  his  lips  and  an  electric 
glitter  in  his  eye,  adroitly  flung  his  left  hand  for 
ward,  smiting  his  insulter  such  a  blow  in  the  region 
of  the  brow  that  the  unguarded  Billy  went  tum- 

233 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

bling  backward,  his  plucky  assailant  prancing 
wildly  around  his  prostrate  form. 

"Oh!  come  and  see  me!"  snarled  the  strange 
boy,  in  a  contemptuous  tone,  cocking  his  fists  up 
in  a  scientific  manner,  and  dropping  into  a  stoop- 
shouldered  swagger  that  would  have  driven  envy 
into  the  heart  of  a  bullying  hack-driver.  "Git  the 
bloke  on  his  pins!*'  he  sneered,  turning  to  the 
crowd. — "S'pose  I'm  goin'  to  hit  a  man  w'en  he's 
d-own?" 

But  his  antagonist  needed  no  such  assistance. 
Stung  with  his  unlooked-for  downfall,  bleeding 
from  the  first  blow  ever  given  him  by  mortal  boy, 
and  goaded  to  absolute  frenzy  by  the  taunts  of  his 
swaggering  enemy,  Billy  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  a 
moment  later  had  succeeded  in  closing  with  the 
boy  in  a  rough-and-tu-mble  fight,  in  which  his  ad 
versary  was  at  disadvantage,  being  considerably 
less  in  size,  hampered,  too,  with  his  loose,  unbut 
toned  coat  and  baggy  trousers.  But,  for  all,,  he 
did  some  very  efficient  work  in  the  way  of  a  deft 
and  telling  blow  or  two  upon  the  nose  of  his  over 
powering  foe,  who  sat  astride  of  his  wriggling 
body,  but  wholly  unable  to  get  in  a  lick. 

"Durn  you !"  said  Billy,  with  his  hand  gripping 
the  boy's  throat,  "holler  'nough!" 

"Holler  nothin'J"  gurgled  the  boy,  with  his 
eyes  fairly  starting  from  his  head. 

234 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

"Oh,  let  him  up,  Billy,"  called  a  compassion 
ate  voice  from  the  excited  crowd. 

"Holler  'nough  and  I  will,"  said  Billy,  in  a 
tragic  whisper  in  the  boy's  ear.  "Durn  ye!  holler 
'Calf-rope!'" 

The  boy  only  shook  his  head,  trembled  convul 
sively,  let  fall  his  eyelids,  and  lay  limp  and,  to  all 
appearances,  unconscious. 

The  startled  Billy  loosed  his  hold,  rose  half 
way  to  his  feet,  then  fiercely  pounced  again  at  his 
rival. 

But  it  was  too  late. — The  ruse  had  succeeded, 
and  the  boy  was  once  more  on  his  feet. 

"You  fight  like  a  dog!"  said  the  strange  boy, 
in  a  tone  of  infinite  contempt — "and  you  air  a 
dog!  Put  up  yer  props  like  a  man  and  come  at 
me,  and  I'll  meller  yer  head  till  yer  mother  won't 
know  you!  Come  on!  I  dare  you!" 

This  time,  as  Billy  started  forward  at  the  chal 
lenge,  I  regret  to  say  that  in  his  passion  he  snatched 
up  from  the  street  a  broken  buggy-spoke,  before 
which  warlike  weapon  the  strange  boy  was  forced 
warily  to  retreat.  Step  by  step  he  gave  back,  and 
step  by  step  his  threatening  foe  advanced.  I  think, 
perhaps,  part  of  the  strange  boy's  purpose  in  thus 
retreating  was  to  arm  himself  with  one  of  the 
"axe-handles"  that  protruded  from  a  churn  stand 
ing  in  front  of  a  grocery,  toward  which  he  slowly 

235 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

backed  across  the  sidewalk.  However  that  may 
be,  it  is  evident  he  took  no  note  of  an  open  cellar- 
way  that  lay  behind  him,  over  the  brink  of  which 
he  deliberately  backed,  throwing  up  his  hands  as 
he  disappeared. 

We  heard  a  heavy  fall,  but  heard  no  cry.  Some 
loungers  in  the  grocery,  attracted  by  the  clamor 
of  the  throng  without,  came  to  the  door  inquir 
ingly;  one  man,  learning  what  had  happened, 
peered  down  the  stairway  of  the  cellar,  and  called 
to  ask  the  boy  if  he  was  hurt,  which  query  was  an 
swered  an  instant  later  by  the  appearance  of  the 
boy  himself,  his  face  far  whiter  than  his  shirt,  and 
his  lips  trembling,  but  his  teeth  clinched. 

"Guess  I  broke  my  arm  ag'in,"  he  said,  briefly, 
as  the  man  leaned  over  and  helped  him  up  the 
steps,  the  boy  sweeping  his  keen  eyes  searchingly 
over  the  faces  of  the  crowd.  It's  the  right  arm, 
though,"  he  continued,  glancing  at  the  injured 
member  dangling  helplessly  at  his  side — "tkis-'un's 
all  right  yet!"  and  as  he  spoke  he  jerked  from  the 
man's  assistance,  wheeled  round,  and  an  instant 
later,  as  a  buggy-spoke  went  hurtling  through  the 
air,  he  slapped  the  bewildered  face  of  Billy  with 
his  open  hand.  "Dam'  coward!"  he  said. 

Then  the  man  caught  him,  and  drew  him  back, 
and  the  crowd  closed  in  between  the  combatants, 
following,  as  the  boy  with  the  broken  arm  was 
236 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

hurried  down  street  to  the  doctor's  office,  where 
the  door  was  immediately  closed  on  the  rabble  and 
all  the  mystery  within — not  an  utter  mystery,  either, 
for  three  or  four  enterprising  and  sagacious  boys 
slipped  off  from  the  crowd  that  thronged  in  front, 
and,  climbing  by  a  roundabout  way  and  over  a 
high  board-fence  into  the  back  yard,  secretly  posted 
themselves  at  the  blinded  window  in  the  rear  of 
the  little  one-roomed  office  and  breathlessly  awaited 
advices  from  within. 

"They  got  him  laid  out  on  the  settee,"  whis 
pered  a  venturous  boy  who  had  leaned  a  board 
against  the  window-sill  and  climbed  into  a  posi 
tion  commanding  the  enviable  advantage  of  a 
broken  window-pane.  "I  kin  see  him  through  a 
hole  in  the  curtain.  Keep  still! 

"They  got  his  coat  off,  and  his  sleeve  rolled 
upr"  whispered  the  boy,  in  continuation — "and 
the  doctor's  a-givin'  him  some  medicine  in  a  tum 
bler.  Now  he's  a-pullin' his  arm.  Gee-mun-nee ! 
I  kin  hear  the  bones  crunch!" 

"Hain't  he  a-cryin'  ?"  queried  a  milk-faced  boy, 
with  very  large  blue  eyes  and  fine  white  hair,  and 
a  grieved  expression  as  he  spoke. — "Hain't  he 
a-cryin' ?" 

"Well,  he  hain't!"  said  the  boy  in  the  window, 
with  unconscious  admiration.  "Listen! 

"I  heered  him  thist  tell  'em  'at  it  wasn't  the 

237 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

first  time  his  arm  was  broke.  Now  keep  still!" 
and  the  boy  in  the  window  again  bent  his  ear  to  the 
broken  pane. 

"He  says  both  his  arms'sbe'n  broke,"  continued 
the  boy  in  the  window — "says  this-'un  'at's  broke 
now's  be'n  broke  two  times  'fore  this  time." 

"Dog-gone!  hain't  he  a  funny  feller!"  said  the 
milk-faced  boy,  with  his  big  eyes  lifted  wistfully 
to  the  boy  in  the  window. 

"He  says  onc't  his  pap  broke  his  arm  w'en 
he  was  whippin'  him,"  whispered  the  boy  in  the 
window. 

"Bet  his  pa's  a  wicked  man!"  said  the  milk- 
faced  boy,  in  a  dreamy,  speculative  way — "s'pect 
he's  a  drunkard,  ersomepin'!" 

"Keep  still!"  said  the  boy  at  the  window; 
"they're  tryin'  to  git  him  to  bell  his  pap's  name 
and  his,  and  he  won't  do  it,  'cause  he  says  his 
pap  comes  and  steals  him  ever'  time  he  finds  out 
where  he  is." 

The  milk-faced  boy  drew  a  long,  quavering 
breath  and  gazed  suspiciously  round  the  high  board- 
fence  of  the  enclosure. 

"He  says  his  pap  used  to  keep  a  liberty-stable 
in  Zeeny — in  Ohio  somers, — but  he  daresn't  stay 
round  there  no  more,  'cause  he  broke  up  there, 
and  had  to  skedaddle  er  they'd  clean  him  out!  He 
says  he  hain't  got  no  mother,  ner  no  brothers,  ner 

238 


"THE    BOY   FROM    ZEENY' 

no  sisters,  ner  no  nothin' — on'y,"  the  boy  in  the 
window  added,  with  a  very  dry  and  painful  swal 
low,  "he  says  he  hain't  got  nothin'  on'y  thist  the 
clothes  on  his  back!" 

"Yes,  and  I  bet,"  broke  in  the  milk-faced  boy, 
abruptly,  with  his  thin  lips  compressed,  and  his 
big  eyes  fixed  on  space — "yes,  and  I  bet  he  kin 
lick  Bill  Kinzey,  ef  his  arm  is  broke!" 

At  this  juncture  some  one  inside  coming  to  raise 
the  window,  the  boy  at  the  broken  pane  leaped  to 
the  ground,  and,  flocking  at  his  heels,  his  fright 
ened  comrades  bobbed  one  by  one  over  the  horizon 
of  the  high  fence  and  were  gone  in  an  instant. 

So  it  was  that  the  hero  of  this  sketch  came  to  be 
known  as  "The  Boy  from  Zeeny." 

The  Boy  from  Zeeny,  though  evidently  predis 
posed  to  novel  and  disastrous  happenings,  for  once, 
at  least,  had  come  upon  a  streak  of  better  fortune ; 
for  the  doctor,  it  appeared,  had  someway  taken  a 
fancy  to  him,  and  had  offered  him  an  asylum  at 
his  own  home  and  hearth — the  compensation  stip 
ulated,  and  suggested  by  the  boy  himself,  being  a 
conscientious  and  efficient  service  in  the  doctor's 
stable.  Even  with  his  broken  arm  splinted  and 
bandaged  and  supported  in  a  sling,  The  Boy  from 
Zeeny  could  be  daily  seen  loping  the  doctor's 
spirited  horse  up  the  back  alley  from  the  stable  to 
the  office,  with  the  utter  confidence  and  careless 

239 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

grace  of  a  Bedouin.  When,  at  last,  the  injured 
arm  was  wholly  well  again,  the  daring  feats  of 
horsemanship  of  which  the  boy  was  capable  were 
listened  to  with  incredulity  by  the  "good"  boys  of 
the  village  school,  who  never  played  "hookey"  on 
long  summer  afternoons,  and,  in  consequence, 
never  had  a  chance  of  witnessing  The  Boy  from 
Zeeny  loping  up  to  the  "swimmin'-hole,"  a  mile 
from  town,  barebacked,  with  nothing  but  a  halter, 
and  his  face  turned  toward  the  horse's  tail.  In 
fact,  The  Boy  from  Zeeny  displayed  such  a  ver 
satility  of  accomplishments,  and  those,  too,  of  a 
character  but  faintly  represented  in  the  average 
boy  of  the  country  town,  that,  for  all  the  admira 
tion  their  possessor  evoked,  an  equal  envy  was 
aroused  in  many  a  youthful  breast. 

"The  boys  in  this  town's  down  on  you  !"  said  a 
cross-eyed,  freckle-faced  boy,  one  day,  to  The 
Boy  from  Zeeny. 

The  Boy  from  Zeeny  was  sitting  in  the  alley 
window  of  the  hay-loft  of  the  doctor's  stable,  and 
the  cross-eyed  boy  had  paused  below,  and,  with 
his  noward-looking  eyes  upturned,  stood  waiting 
the  effect  of  this  intelligence. 

"What  do  I  care  fer  the  boys  in  this  town?" 
said  The  Boy  from  Zeeny. 

"The  boys  in  this  town,"  repeated  the  cross 
eyed  boy,  with  a  slow,  prophetic  flourish  of  his 
240 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

head  —  "the  boys  in  this  town  says  'cause  you 
come  from  Zeeny  and  blacked  Bill  Kinzey's  eye, 
'at  you  think  you're  goin'  to  run  things  round  here ! 
And  you'll  find  out  you  ain't  the  bosst  o'  this 
town!"  and  the  cross-eyed  boy  shook  his  head 
again  with  dire  foreboding. 

"Looky  here,  Cocky!"  said  The  Boy  from 
Zeeny,  trying  to  focus  a  direct  gaze  on  the  boy's 
delusive  eyes,  "w'y  don't  you  talk  straight  out 
from  the  shoulder?  I  reckon  'the  boy  sin  this  town,' 
as  you  call  'em,  didn't  send  you  round  here  to  tell 
me  w'at  they  was  goin'  to  do!  But  ef  you  want 
to  take  it  up  fer  'em,  and  got  any  sand  to  back  you, 
jest  say  it,  and  I'll  come  down  there  and  knock 
them  durn  twisted  eyes  o'  yourn  straight  ag'in!" 

"Yes,  you  will!"  muttered  the  cross-eyed  boy, 
with  dubious  articulation,  glancing  uneasily  up 
the  alley. 

"What?"  growled  The  Boy  from  Zeeny,  thrust 
ing  one  dangling  leg  farther  out  the  window,  sup 
porting  his  weight  by  the  palms  of  his  hands,  and 
poised  as  though  about  to  spring — "w'at  'id  you 
say?" 

"Didn't  say  nothin',"  said  the  cross-eyed  boy, 
feebly;  and  then,  as  a  sudden  and  most  bewilder 
ing  smile  lit  up  his  defective  eyes,  he  exclaimed: 
"Oh!  I  tell  you  what  le's  do!  Le's  me  and  you 
git  up  a  show  in  your  stable,  and  don't  let  none  o' 
241 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

the  other  boys  be  in  it !  I  kin  turn  a  handspring 
like  you,  and  purt'  nigh  walk  on  my  hands ;  and 
you  kin  p'form  on  the  slack-rope — and  spraddle 
out  like  the  'inja-rubber  man' — and  hold  a  pitch 
fork  on  yer  chin — and  stand  up  on  a  horse  'ithout 
a-holdin' — and — and — Oh!  ever'thing!"  And  as 
the  cross-eyed  boy  breathlessly  concluded  this  list 
of  strong  attractions,  he  had  The  Boy  from  Zeeny 
so  thoroughly  inoculated  with  the  enterprise  that 
he  warmly  closed  with  the  proposition,  and  the 
preparations  and  the  practice  for  the  show  were  at 
once  inaugurated. 

Three  hours  later,  an  extremely  cross-eyed  boy, 
with  the  freckles  on  his  face  thrown  into  vivid  re 
lief  by  an  intense  pallor,  rushed  pantingly  into  the 
doctor's  office  with  the  fateful  intelligence  that 
The  Boy  from  Zeeny  had  "fell  and  broke  his  arm 
ag'in."  And  this  time,  as  it  seemed,  the  hapless 
boy  had  surpassed  the  seriousness  of  all  former 
fractures,  this  last  being  of  a  compound  nature, 
and  very  painful  in  the  setting,  and  tedious  in  re 
covery  ;  the  recovery,  too,  being  anything  but  per 
fect,  since  it  left  the  movement  of  the  elbow  some 
what  restricted,  and  threw  the  little  fellow's  arm 
in  an  unnatural  position,  with  the  palm  of  the 
hand  turned  forward  as  he  walked.  But  for  all 
that,  the  use  of  it  was,  to  all  appearances,  but  lit 
tle  impaired. 

242 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

Doubtless  it  was  through  such  interludes  from 
rough  service  as  these  accidents  afforded  that  The 
Boy  from  Zeeny  had  acquired  the  meagre  educa 
tion  he  possessed.  The  doctor's  wife,  who  had 
from  the  first  been  kind  to  him,  grew  to  like  him 
very  much.  Through  her  gentle  and  considerate 
interest  he  was  stimulated  to  study  by  the  occa 
sional  present  of  a  simple  volume.  Oftentimes 
the  good  woman  would  devote  an  hour  to  his  in 
struction  in  the  mysteries  of  the  book's  orthography 
and  rhetoric. 

Nor  was  The  Boy  from  Zeeny  a  dull  pupil ; 
neither  was  he  an  ungrateful  one.  He  was  quick 
to  learn,  and  never  prouder  than  when  a  mastered 
lesson  gained  for  him  the  approbation  of  his  pa 
tient  instructor. 

The  history  of  The  Boy  from  Zeeny,  such  as 
had  been  gathered  by  the  doctor  and  his  wife,  was 
corroborative  in  outline  with  the  brief  hint  of  it 
as  communicated  to  the  curious  listeners  at  the 
rear  window  of  the  doctor's  office  on  the  memo 
rable  day  of  the  boy's  first  appearance  in  the  town. 
He  was  without  family,  save  a  harsh,  unfeeling 
father,  who,  from  every  evidence,  must  have  neg 
lected  and  abused  the  child  most  shamefully,  the 
circumstantial  proof  of  this  fact  being  evidenced 
in  the  boy's  frank  acknowledgment  that  he  had  re 
peatedly  "run  away"  from  him,  and  his  still  firm 

243 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

resolve  to  keep  his  name  a  secret,  lest  he  might 
thereby  be  traced  to  his  present  security  and  fall 
once  more  into  the  hands  of  his  unnatural  parent. 
Certain  it  was  that  the  interest  of  all  who  knew 
his  story  was  in  hearty  sympathy  with  the  lad,  and 
when  one  morning  it  was  rumored  that  The  Boy 
from  Zeeny  had  mysteriously  disappeared,  and  the 
rumor  rapidly  developed  into  an  unquestionable 
fact,  there  was  a  universal  sense  of  regret  in  the 
little  town,  which  in  turn  resolved  itself  into  posi 
tive  indignation  when  it  was  learned  from  the  doc 
tor  that  an  explanation,  printed  in  red  keel  on  the 
back  of  a  fragmental  bit  of  circus-poster,  had  been 
found'folded  and  tucked  away  in  the  buckle-strap 
of  his  horse's  bridle.  The  somewhat  remarkable 
communication,  in  sprawling  capitals,  ran  thus: 

"PAPS  GOT  ME  AGIN.      I  HAF  TO  GO.      DAM  HIM. 
DOC  TEL  HER  TO  KEEP  MY  BOOCKS.       GOOD  BY.       I 

FED  OLE  CHARLY.     I  FED  HIM  OTES  AN  HA  AN 

CORN.       HE    WONT    NEED    NO    MORE    FER  A  WEAK. 
AN  BRAND  TO.       DOC  TEL  HER  GOOD  BY.'? 

It  was  a  curious  bit  of  composition — uncouth, 
assuredly,  and  marred,  maybe,  with  an  unpardon 
able  profanity — but  it  served.  In  the  silence  and 
gloom  of  the  old  stable,  the  doctor's  fingers  trem 
bled  as  he  read,  and  the  good  wife's  eyes,  peering 
244 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

anxiously  above  his  heaving  shoulder,  filled  and 
overflowed  with  tears. 

I  wish  that  it  were  in  the  veracious  sequence  of 
this  simple  history  to  give  this  wayward  boy  back 
to  the  hearts  that  loved  him,  and  that  still  in  mem 
ory  enshrine  him  with  affectionate  regard  ;  but  the 
hapless  lad — the  little  ragged  twelve-year-old  that 
wandered  out  of  nowhere  into  town,  and  wandered 
into  nowhere  out  again — never  returned.  Yet  we 
who  knew  him  in  those  old  days — we  who  were 
children  with  him,  and,  in  spite  of  boyish  jealous 
ies  and  petty  bickerings,  admired  the  gallant 
spirit  of  the  lad — are  continually  meeting  with 
reminders  of  him ;  the  last  instance  of  which,  in 
my  own  experience,  I  cannot  here  refrain  from 
offering : 

For  years  I  have  been  a  wanderer  from  the  dear 
old  town  of  my  nativity,  but  through  all  my  wan 
derings  a  gracious  fate  has  always  kept  me  some 
where  in  its  pleasant  neighborhood,  and,  in  conse 
quence,  I  often  pay  brief  visits  to  the  scenes  of 
my  long-vanished  boyhood.  It  was  during  such  a 
visit,  but  a  few  short  years  ago,  that  remembrances 
of  my  lost  youth  were  most  forcibly  recalled  by 
the  progress  of  the  County  Fair,  which  institution 
I  was  permitted  to  attend  through  the  kindness  of 
an  old  chum  who  drove  me  over  in  his  buggy. 

Although  it  was  not  the  day  for  racing,  we  found 

245 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

the  track  surrounded  by  a  dense  crowd  of  clamor 
ous  and  applausive  people. 

"What  does  it  mean?"  I  asked  my  friend,  as  he 
guided  his  horse  in  and  out  among  the  trees  toward 
the  edge  of  the  enclosure. 

"It's  Professor  Andrus,  I  suspect,"  he  an 
swered,  rising  in  the  buggy  as  he  spoke,  and  peer 
ing  eagerly  above  the  heads  of  the  surging  multi 
tude. 

"And  who's  Professor  Andrus?"  Tasked,  strik 
ing  a  match  against  the  tire  of  the  now  stationary 
buggy- wheel,  and  lighting  the  stump  of  my  cigar. 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard  of  the  famous  Pro 
fessor?"  he  answered,  laughingly — immediately 
adding  in  a  serious  tone:  "Professor  Andrus  is 
the  famous  'horse-tamer'  who  has  been  driving  the 
country  absolutely  wild  here  for  two  or  three  days. 
Stand  up  here  where  you  can  see!"  he  went  on, 
excitedly. 

"Yonder  he  comes!     Isn't  that  splendid?" 

And  it  was. 

Across  the  sea  of  heads,  and  facing  toward  us 
down  the  track,  I  caught  sight  of  a  glossy  span  of 
horses  that  in  their  perfect  beauty  of  symmetry, 
high  heads,  and  tossing  manes  looked  as  though 
they  were  just  prancing  out  of  some  Arabian 
dream.  The  animals  seemed  nude  of  rein  or 
harness,  save  but  a  jewelled  strap  that  crossed  the 
246 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY 

breast  of  each,  together  with  a  slender  trace  at 
either  side  connecting  with  a  jaunty  little  phaeton 
whose  glittering  wheels  slivered  the  .sunshine  into 
splinters  as  they  spun.  Upon  the  narrow  seat  of 
the  airy  vehicle  sat  the  driver.  No  lines  were 
wound  about  his  hands — no  shout  or  lash  to  goad 
the  horses  to  their  telling  speed.  They  were 
simply  directed  and  controlled  by  the  graceful 
motions  of  a  long  and  slender  whip  which  waved 
slowly  to  and  fro  above  their  heads.  The  great 
crowd  cheered  the  master  as  he  came.  He  arose 
deliberately,  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed.  The 
applause  was  deafening.  Still  standing,  he  whizzed 
past  us  and  was  gone.  But  something  in  the 
manner  of  the  handsome  fellow  struck  me  with  a 
strange  sense  of  familiarity.  Was  it  the  utter  dis 
regard  of  fear  that  I  saw  within  his  face?  Was 
it  the  keenness  of  the  eye  and  the  perfect  self- 
possession  of  the  man?  Or  was  it — was  it  the 
peculiar  way  in  which  the  right  arm  had  dropped 
to  his  side  after  his  salute  to  us  while  curving  past 
us,  and  did  I  fancy,  for  that  reason,  that  the  palm 
of  his  hand  turned  forward  as  he  stood  ? 

"Clear  the  track,  there!"  came  a  far  voice  across 
the  .ring. — "Don't  cross  there,  in  God's  name! 
Drive  back!" 

The  warning  evidently  came  too  late.  There 
was  an  instant's  breathless  silence,  then  a  far- 
247 


"THE  BOY  FROM  ZEENY" 

away,  pent-sounding  clash,  then  utter  havoc  in  the 
crowd:  The  ropes  about  the  ring  were  broken 
over,  and  a  tumultuous  tide  of  people  poured 
across  the  ring,  myself  borne  on  the  very  foremost 
wave. 

"Jist  the  buggy  smashed,  that's  all!"  cried  a 
voice.  "The  hosses  hain't  hurt — ner  the  man." 

The  man  referred  to  was  the  Professor.  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  him  as  he  rose  from  the 
grassy  bank  where  he  had  been  flung.  He  was 
very  pale,  but  calm.  An  uncouth  man  brought 
him  his  silk  hat  from  where  it  had  rolled  in  the 
dust. 

"Wish  you'd  just  take  this  handkerchief  and 
brush  it  off,"  said  the  Professor;  "I  guess  I've 
broke  my  arm." 

It  was  The  Boy  from  Zeeny. 


248 


THE   OLD  MAN 


THE  OLD  MAN 

[Response  made  to  the  sentiment, ' '  The  Old  Man? ' 
at  the  annual  dinner  of  the  Indianap 
olis  Literary  Club.~\ 

"  'You  are  old,  Father  William,'  the  young  man  said, 

'And  your  hair  has  become  very  white, 
And  yet  you  incessantly  stand  on  your  head — 
Do  you  think,  at  your  age,  it  is  right?'  " 

THE  Old  Man  never  grows  so  old  as  to  become 
either  stale,  juiceless,  or  unpalatable.  The  older 
he  grows,  the  mellower  and  riper  he  becomes. 
His  eyes  may  fail  him,  his  step  falter,  and  his  big- 
mouthed  shoes — "A  world  too  wide  for  his  shrunk 
shanks' ' — may  cluck  and  shuffle  as  he  walks ;  his 
rheumatics  may  make  great  knuckles  of  his  knees ; 
the  rusty  hinges  of  his  vertebrae  may  refuse  cun 
ningly  to  articulate,  but  all  the  same  the  "back 
bone"  of  the  old  man  has  been  time-seasoned, 
tried,  and  tested,  and  no  deerskin  vest  was  ever 
buttoned  round  a  tougher !  Look  at  the  eccentric 
kinks  and  curvings  of  it — its  abrupt  depression  at 
the  base,  and  its  rounded  bulging  at  the  shoulders; 


THE    OLD    MAN 

but  don't  laugh  at  the  smart  young  man  who  airily 
observes  how  full-chested  the  old  man  would  be  if 
his  head  were  only  turned  around,  and  don't  kill 
the  young  man,  either,  until  you  take  him  out 
some  place  and  tell  him  that  the  old  man  got  him 
self  warped  up  in  that  shape  along  about  the  times 
when  everybody  had  to  hump  himself.  Try  to 
bring  before  the  young  man's  defective  mental 
vision  a  dissolving  view  of  a  "good  old-fashioned 
barn-raisin'"  —  and  the  old  man  doing  all  the 
"raisin'  "  himself,  and  "grubbin',"  and  "burnin' ' 
logs  and  "underbrush,"  and  "dreenin'  "  at  the 
same  time,  and  trying  to  coax  something  besides 
calamus  to  grow  in  the  spongy  little  tract  of  swamp 
land  that  he  could  stand  in  the  middle  of  and 
"wobble"  and  shake  the  whole  farm.  Or,  if  you 
can't  recall  the  many  salient  features  of  the  minor 
disadvantages  under  which  the  old  man  used  to 
labor,  your  pliant  limbs  may  soon  overtake  him, 
and  he  will  smilingly  tell  you  of  trials  and  priva 
tions  of  the  early  days,  until  your  anxiety  about 
the  young  man  just  naturally  stagnates,  and  dries 
up,  and  evaporates,  and  blows  away. 

In  this  little  side-show  of  existence  the  old  man 
is  always  worth  the  full  price  of  admission.  He 
is  not  only  the  greatest  living  curiosity  on  exhibi 
tion,  but  the  object  of  the  most  genial  solicitude 
and  interest  to  the  serious  observer.  It  is  even 
252 


THE    OLD    MAN 

good  to  look  upon  his  vast  fund  of  afflictions,  find 
ing  prominent  above  them  all  that  wholesome  pa 
tience  that  surpasseth  understanding;  to  dwell 
compassionately  upon  his  prodigality  of  aches  and 
ailments,  and  yet,  by  his  pride  in  their  wholesale 
possession,  and  his  thorough  resignation  to  the  in 
evitable,  to  be  continually  rebuked,  and  in  part 
made  envious  of  the  old  man's  right-of-title  situa 
tion.  Nature,  after  all,  is  kinder  than  unkind  to 
him,  and  always  has  a  compensation  and  a  sooth 
ing  balm  for  every  blow  that  age  may  deal  him. 
And  in  the  fading  embers  of  the  old  man's  eyes 
there  are,  at  times,  swift  flashes  and  rekindling-s 
of  the  smiles  of  youth,  and  the  old  artlessness 
about  the  wrinkled  face  that  dwelt  there  when  his 
cheeks  were  like  the  pippins,  and  his 

"  red  lips,  redder  still, 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill." 

And  thus  it  is  the  children  are  intuitively  drawn 
toward  him,  and  young,  pure-faced  mothers  are 
forever  hovering  about  him,  with  just  such  humor- 
ings  and  kindly  ministrations  as  they  bestow  upon 
the  little  emperor  of  the  household  realm,  strapped 
in  his  high  chair  at  the  dinner-table,  crying  "Amen" 
in  the  midst  of  "grace,"  and  ignoring  the  "sub- 
stantials"  of  the  groaning  board,  and  at  once  in- 

253 


THE    OLD    MAN 

sisting  upon  a  square  deal  of  the  more  "temporal 
blessings"  of  jelly,  cake,  and  pie.  And  the  old 
man  has  justly  earned  every  distinction  he  enjoys. 
Therefore  let  him  make  your  hearthstone  all  the 
brighter  with  the  ruddy  coal  he  drags  up  from  it 
with  his  pipe  and  comfortably  settles  himself  where, 
with  reminiscent  eyes,  he  may  watch  the  curling 
smoke  of  his  tobacco  as  it  indolently  floats,  and 
drifts,  and  dips  at  last,  and  vanishes  up  the  grate 
ful  flue.  At  such  times,  when  a  five-year-old, 
what  a  haven  every  boy  has  found  between  the  old 
grandfather's  knees!  Look  back  in  fancy  at  the 
faces  blending  there — the  old  man's  and  the  boy's 
— and,  with  the  nimbus  of  the  smoke-wreaths 
round  the  brows,  the  gilding  of  the  firelight  on 
cheek  and  chin,  and  the  rapt  and  far-off  gazings 
of  the  eyes  of  both,  why,  but  for  the  silver  tinsel 
of  the  beard  of  one  and  the  dusky  elf-locks  of  the 
other,  the  faces  seem  almost  like  twins. 

With  such  a  view  of  age,  one  feels  like  whip 
ping  up  the  lazy  years  and  getting  old  at  once. 
In  heart  and  soul  the  old  man  is  not  old — and  never 
will  be.  He  is  paradoxically  old,  and  that  is  all. 
So  it  is  that  he  grows  younger  with  increasing 
years,  until  old  age  at  worst  is  always  at  a  level 
par  with  youth.  Who  ever  saw  a  man  so  old 
as  not  secretly  and  most  heartily  to  wish  the 
veteran  years  upon  years  of  greater  age  ?  And  at 

254 


THE    OLD   MAN 

what  great  age  did  ever  any  old  man  pass  away 
and  leave  behind  no  sudden  shock,  and  no  selfish 
hearts  still  to  yearn  after  him  and  grieve  on  uncon- 
soled  ?  Why,  even  in  the  slow  declining  years  of 
old  Methuselah — the  banner  old  man  of  the  uni 
verse, — so  old  that  history  grew  absolutely  tired 
waiting  for  him  to  go  off  some  place  and  die — even 
Methuselah's  taking  off  must  have  seemed  abrupt 
to  his  immediate  friends,  and  a  blow  to  the  gen 
eral  public  that  doubtless  plunged  it  into  the  pro- 
foundest  gloom.  For  nine  hundred  and  sixty-nine 
years  this  durable  old  man  had  "smelt  the  rose 
above  the  mould,"  and  doubtless  had  a  thousand 
times  been  told  by  congratulative  friends  that  he 
didn't  look  a  day  older  than  nine  hundred  and 
sixty-eight;  and  necessarily,  the  habit  of  living, 
with  him,  was  hard  to  overcome.  In  his  later 
years  what  an  oracle  he  must  have  been,  and  with 
what  reverence  his  friends  must  have  looked  upon 
the  "little,  glassy-headed,  hairless  man,"  and 
hung  upon  his  every  utterance !  And  with  what 
unerring  gift  of  prophecy  could  he  foretell  the 
long  and  husky  droughts  of  summer — the  gracious 
rains,  at  last, — the  milk-sick  breeding  autumn  and 
the  blighting  winter,  simply  by  the  way  his  bones 
felt  after  a  century's  casual  attack  of  inflamma 
tory  rheumatism !  And,  having  annually  frosted 
his  feet  for  some  odd  centuries — boy  and  man — 

255 


THE    OLD    MAN 

we  can  fancy  with  what  quiet  delight  he  was  wont 
to  practise  his  prognosticating  facilities  on  "the 
boys,"  forecasting  the  coming  of  the  then  fledg 
ling  cyclone  and  the  gosling  blizzard,  and  doubt 
less  even  telling  the  day  of  the  month  by  the  way 
his  heels  itched.  And  with  what  wonderment  and 
awe  must  old  chronic  maladies  have  regarded  him 
— tackling  him  singly  or  in  solid  phalanx,  only  to 
drop  back  pantingly,  at  last,  and  slink  away  dum- 
f ounded  and  abashed !  And  with  what  brazen 
pride  the  final  conquering  disease  must  have  ex 
ulted  over  its  shameless  victory!  But  this  is 
pathos  here,  and  not  a  place  for  ruthless  specula 
tion:  a  place  for  asterisks — not  words.  Peace! 
peace!  The  man  is  dead!  "The  fever  called 
living  is  over  at  last."  The  patient  slumbers.  He 
takes  his  rest.  He  sleeps.  Come  away !  He  is 
the  oldest  dead  man  in  the  cemetery. 

Whether  the  hardy,  stall-fed  old  man  of  the 
country,  or  the  opulent  and  well-groomed  old  man 
of  the  metropolis,  he  is  one  in  our  esteem  and  the 
still  warmer  affections  of  the  children.  The  old 
man  from  the  country — you  are  always  glad  to  see 
him  and  hear  him  talk.  There  is  a  breeziness  of  the 
woods  and  hills  and  a  spice  of  the  bottom-lands 
and  thickets  in  everything  he  says,  and  dashes  of 
shadow  and  sunshine  over  the  waving  wheat  are 
in  all  the  varying  expressions  of  his  swarthy  face. 
256 


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The  grip  of  his  hand  is  a  thing  to  bet  on,  and 
the  undue  loudness  of  his  voice  in  greeting  you  is 
even  lulling  and  melodious,  since  it  unconsciously 
argues  the  frankness  of  a  nature  that  has  noth 
ing  to  conceal.  Very  probably  you  are  forced  to 
smile,  meeting  the  old  man  in  town,  where  he 
never  seems  at  ease,  and  invariably  apologizes  in 
some  way  for  his  presence,  saying,  perhaps,  by 
way  of  explanation:  "Yes-sir,  here  I  am,  in  spite 
o'  myse'f.  Come  in  day  afore  yisterd'y.  Boys 
was  thrashin'  on  the  place,  and  the  beltin'  kep' 
a-troublin'  and  delayin'  of  'em — and  I  was  pot- 
terin'  round  in  the  way  anyhow,  tel  finally  they 
sent  me  off  to  town  to  git  some  whang-luther  and 
ribbets,  and  while  I  was  in,  I  thought — I  thought 
I'd  jest  run  over  and  see  the  Jedge  about  that 
Henry  County  matter;  and  as  I  was  knockin' 
round  the  court-house,  first  thing  I  knowed  I'll  be 
switched  to  death  ef  they  didn't  pop  me  on  the 
jury!  And  here  I  am,  eatin'  my  head  off  up  here 
at  the  tavern.  Reckon,  tho',  the  County '11  stand 
good  fer  my  expenses.  Ef  hit  cain't,  I  kin!" 
And,  with  the  heartiest  sort  of  a  laugh,  the  old  man 
jogs  along,  leaving  you  to  smile  till  bedtime  over 
the  happiness  he  has  unconsciously  contributed. 

Another  instance  of  the  old  man's  humor  under 
trying  circumstances  was  developed  but  a  few  days 
since.  This  old  man  was  a  German  citizen  of  an 

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inundated  town  in  the  Ohio  valley.  There  was 
much  of  the  pathetic  in  his  experience,  but  the 
bravery  with  which  he  bore  his  misfortunes  was 
admirable.  A  year  ago  his  little  home  was  first 
invaded  by  the  flood,  and  himself  and  wife,  and 
his  son's  family,  were  driven  from  it  to  the  hills 
for  safety — but  the  old  man's  telling  of  the  story 
cannot  be  improved  upon.  It  ran  like  this:  "Last 
year,  ven  I  svwim  out  fon  dot  leedle  home  off 
mine,  mit  my  vife,  unt  my  son  his  vife  unt  leedle 
girls,  I  dink  dot's  der  last  time  good-bye  to  dose 
proberty !  But  afder  der  vater  it  gone  down,  unt 
dry  oop  unt  eberding,  dere  vas  yet  der  house  dere. 
Unt  my  friends  dey  sait,  'Dot's  all  you  got  yet — 
Veil,  feex  oop  der  house — dot's  someding!  feex 
oop  der  house,  unt  you  vood  still  hatt  yet  a  home ! ' 
Vel,  all  summer  I  go  to  work,  unt  spent  me  eber 
ding  unt  feex  der  proberty.  Den  I  got  yet  a  mor- 
gage  on  der  house !  Dees  time  here  der  vater  come 
again — till  I  vish  it  vas  last  year  vonce !  Unt  now 
all  I  safe  is  my  vife,  unt  my  son  his  vife,  unt  my 
leedle  grandchilderns !  Else  everding  is  gone !  All 
— everding! — Der  house  gone  —  unt — unt — der 
morgage  gone,  too!"  And  then  the  old  Teutonic 
face  "melted  all  over  in  sunshiny  smiles,"  and, 
turning,  he  bent  and  lifted  a  sleepy  little  girl  from 
a  pile  of  dirty  bundles  in  the  depot  waiting-room 
and  went  pacing  up  and  down  the  muddy  floor, 
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THE    OLD    MAN 

saying  cheery  things  in  German  to  the  child.  I 
thought  the  whole  thing  rather  beautiful.  That's 
the  kind  of  an  old  man  who,  saying  good-bye  to 
his  son,  would  lean  and  kiss  the  young  man's 
hand,  as  in  the  Dutch  regions  of  Pennsylvania, 
two  or  three  weeks  ago,  I  saw  an  old  man  do. 

Mark  Lemon  must  have  intimately  known  and 
loved  the  genteel  old  man  of  the  city  when  the 
once  famous  domestic  drama  of  "Grandfather 
Whitehead"  was  conceived.  In  the  play  the  old 
man — a  once  prosperous  merchant — finds  a  happy 
home  in  the  household  of  his  son-in-law.  And 
here  it  is  that  the  gentle  author  has  drawn  at  once 
the  poem,  the  picture,  and  the  living  proof  of  the 
old  Wordsworthian  axiom,  "The  child  is  father 
to  the  man."  The  old  man,  in  his  simple  way, 
and  in  his  great  love  for  his  willful  little  grand 
child,  is  being  continually  distracted  from  the  grave 
sermons  and  moral  lessons  he  would  read  the  boy. 
As,  for  instance,  aggrievedly  attacking  the  little 
fellow's  neglect  of  his  books  and  his  inordinate 
tendency  toward  idleness  and  play — the  culprit,  in 
the  meantime,  down  on  the  floor  clumsily  winding 
his  top — the  old  man  runs  on  something  in  this  wise : 

"Play!  play!  play!  Always  play  and  no  work, 
no  study,  no  lessons.  And  here  you  are,  the  only 
child  of  the  most  indulgent  parents  in  the  world 
— parents  that,  proud  as  they  are  of  you,  would 

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THE    OLD    MAN 

be  ten  times  prouder  only  to  see  you  at  your  book, 
storing  your  mind  with  useful  knowledge,  instead 
of,  day  in,  day  out,  frittering  away  your  time  over 
your  toys  and  your  tops  and  marbles.  And  even 
when  your  old  grandfather  tries  to  advise  you  and 
wants  to  help  you,  and  is  always  ready  and  eager 
to  assist  you,  and  all — why,  what's  it  all  amount 
to?  Coax  and  beg  and  tease  and  plead  with  you, 
and  yet — and  yet" —  (Mechanically  kneeling  as 
he  speaks)  "Now  that's  not  the  way  to  wind  your 
top !  How  many  more  times  will  I  have  to  show 
you!"  And  an  instant  later  the  old  man's  admo 
nitions  are  entirely  forgotten,  and  his  artless  nature 
— dull  now  to  everything  but  the  childish  glee  in 
which  he  shares — is  all  the  sweeter  and  more  lov 
able  for  its  simplicity. 

And  so  it  is,  Old  Man,  that  you  are  always 
touching  the  very  tenderest  places  in  our  hearts — 
unconsciously  appealing  to  our  warmest  sympa 
thies,  and  taking  to  yourself  our  purest  love.  We 
look  upon  your  drooping  figure,  and  we  mark 
your  tottering  step  and  trembling  hand,  yet  a  re 
liant  something  in  your  face  forbids  compassion, 
and  a  something  in  your  eye  will  not  permit  us  to 
look  sorrowfully  on  you.  And,  however  we  may 
smile  at  your  quaint  ways  and  old-school  oddities 
of  manner  and  of  speech,  our  merriment  is  ever 
tempered  with  the  gentlest  reverence. 
260 


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